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A 



POOR RELATION 


BY 

The Rev. R. G. SOANS, B.A. 

1 ♦ 

AND 

EDITH C. KENYON 

Authors of ^'‘ WiU.Aclcroyd's SociaJism,''' '‘'•Harold's Xetr Creeds''' '’'‘The 
Stranger- Artist," "dfarcia's Repentance ’’ 


Specially written for Once a Week Library " 


New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
1893 


4 







/ 


A.'. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by 
Peter Fenelon Collier, 

in the Ouice of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


/T* 

, 'Z 'I ’i i> 






■POOR RELATION, 




CHAPTER I. 


PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 

Tis not in inorta^ to coniniand success, 

Hut 'veil do mote. Sempronius, we’ll deserve it.” 

—Addison. Cato. 


‘‘Well, here we are, my dears; and we must make 
tlie best of it.” But Mrs. Hartley sighed as she spoke. 

“It’s not at all a bad little drawing-room, mother,” said 
her elder daugJiter, Grace, putting a few finishing touclies 
to the room with deft fingers. 

“It's a nasty little poky room !” said Maude, who was 
eigliteen, and two years younger than Grace. “I wonder 
who will call upon us here?” 

“Well,” said Grace, “we may be sure no one will call 
ui>on us because they think we are rich; and they won’t 
come because they think we’ve a good position in soci- 
et}'. How can they, when we live in such an insignifi- 
cant little house? So, if they come at all, it will be be- 
cause they want to know us for ourselves.” 

‘‘Nobody’ll come,” said Maude, disconsolately, spoil- 
ing lier pretty face by pouting. 

‘‘I’m not at all afraid,” said Grace, arranging her 
mother’s sofa-blanket carefully. ‘‘There is always some 
one, even in the most remote place. There’ll be a cler- 
g3'man, at all events.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hartley, with another sigh, this time 

( 15 ) 


4 


A POOR RELATION. 


of satisfaction. There wouhi. at any -te ^ 


:: :r: Z coma nnhnmen her nrind of the anxieties 
which her reduced circumstances had broug upo 

I fox-hunting —y parson,” said Maude, reheh 

liously, “or a man^e nrind has become torpid with 
livine: iu such a dull plabe ! 

../or shame, Maude I’^laimed Grace; “you forget 
lapa was a country cler^j^man. 

A Maude, lauding; “isn’t that what 

♦ they call clergymen who taT^e to famiing?” ’ 

<‘My dear Maude, you are incorrigible/, ^ said her 
'mother, reprovingly. 

“Forgive me, mother darling,” said Maude, throwing 
^'o’ue arm caressingly round her mother’s neck, “but I can 
just remember grandpapa showing me his pigs!” and, 
her ill humor all vanishing in a moment, she laughed 
merrily. 

“There’s some one coming now, at all events,” said 
Grace, as a firm, light step was to be heard on the gravel 
outside. “Oh ! it’s only Jack.” 

“And isn’t that enough?” demanded a slight but tall 
youth of seventeen, who entered one of the glass doors 
as he spoke. “Mother, I’ve been out reconnoitering. 
There’s a squire’s house— the Hall, I suppose. And, a lit- 
tle way out of the village, a gentleman-farmer’s Idrge 
house, and some smaller farmhouses. One a delightful 
old grange in which Job lives.” 

“Job?” asked Maude. 

“Yes; not he of patience unparalleled, but the most 
grumbling, cafttankerous old fellow I’ve come across for’ 
some time. As I held the door open while I was talking 

• to' them he did nothing but complain that I let in a 
draught of cold air on his rheumatics.” 


A POO^^ KPUATION. 


5 


“Of course you would,” said Grace. ‘‘Poor old man! 
Why didn’t you shut the door?” 

“Daren't!” said Jack, laughing and dropping into an 
easy-chair with a gesture of feigned terror, which made 
them all laugh. • 

“And isn't there a church, and a vicarage?” asked 
]\Iaude. 

“Yes; old and gray and worn, both of them,” said 
Jack, “and they’re rather in a hollow. I couldn’t find 
them at first. They want restoring dreadfully. But I 
don’t suppose the clergyman cares much about that. They 
say he’s an old antiquarian, and does not visit much, or 
preach very lively sermons. But he’s a scholar and a 
gentleman.” 

“There, Maude,'’ said Grace, “you see you were quite 
wrong about what he would be like. ’ ’ 

“Well,” she retorted, “if he's one of that sort he won’t 
be much good to us. I expect I shall go to sleep while 
he’s preaching: I never can stand dry sermons.” 

“I’ll keep you awake, Maude, you may be sure,” said' 
Jack, “for I won’t have any disrespect shown to him, I 
can tell you. The jolliest girl I’ve seen for a long time 
says he’s the dearest old man.” 

“Jack,” cried Maude, “tell us about that jolliest girl 
instantly.” 

“Well, you must know,” said her brother, “that, while 
I was trying to find out where the church was from a 
deaf old stone-breaker by the roadside, she rode by and 
graciously came to the rescue and told me what I wanted 
to know,” 

“And then you got talking?” 

“And then we got talking. And she asked if I was 
one of the new people who had come to Ivy Cottage, and 


6 


A POOR RELAl^ION. 


I said ‘Yes, and wasn’t it a little hole?’ and she laughed 
and said I was to speak more respectfully of her father’s 
property.” 

‘‘Then she was Miss Ingham?” said Mrs. Hartley. 

“Yes.” • ‘ 

“I wonder if they are rich people?” 

“No; she said they were not rich enough to restore the 
church properly.” 

“She must have been a very frank, outspoken girl,” 
said Grace. 

“Not a bit like what T thought she would be,” said 
Maude. “I heard they were poor — tlie charwoman told 
me — and sol thought they’d be very stuck up and proud. 
Poor gentlefolks are always twice as proud as rich peo- 
ple. They are so frightened that, unless they are, people 
will not see what they are.” 

“Real gentlefolk don’t feel in that way,” said Grace; 
“they know what they are, and so don’t care to be al- 
ways asserting it; ' Their position is secure, whatever 
people think.” 

“I’ve heard father say the same thing,” said Jack; 
“only he put it better than you do, Gracie.” 

“Of course he did,” said Grace, emphatically. 

“But, seriously, girls,” said their mother, “we must 
consider what we shall do, now that we have to live 
upon our sadly reduced income.” And again she sighed 
deeply. • ' - 

An officer’s widow, brought up in a comfortable rec* 
tory, and married, in due time, to a military man of good 
family, who was anything but poor, Mrs. Hartley was, 
late in life, ill fitted to cope with the poverty which had 
unexpectedly come upon her. Speculations which her 
husband embarked in' proved unfortunate';’ -Gerald, the 


A POOK RELATION. 


n 

i 


eldest son’s, expenses at Oxford were very great; a bank 
in which the Hartleys had much money failed, and all 
this ill news came just in time to shorten Mr. Hartley's 
already enfeebled life. He died, and his widow left the 
beautiful home in which much of their married life had 
been passed and came with her children to the small 
village of Marburn, near Rushton — that is, only a mile 
and a half off — in Kent, thinking that there, in retire- 
ment, they might hide their poverty from their old 
friends, and, with frugal management, at least contrive 
to live. That was her idea ; but the young people, as 
was natural, wished to see whatever society the neigh- 
borhood afforded. 

“I should think it will not cost much living here, 
mother, with just one young servant,” said Grace. 

“I’m afraid she will require a great deal of help,” said 
her mother, anxiously. 

“Never mind. I’ll help her,” said Grace. “I know 
how to cook.” She was a very sweet-looking girl, with 
an oval face, great brown eyes and a quantity of dark- 
brown hair. She was rather tall, too, and her name had 
not been inappropriately given, for she was graceful. 
Maude, on the other hand, was rather small and a little 
inclined to stoutness, but her face was a very pretty one, 
her complexion was charming, and she had great blue 
eyes and golden hair. 

“Gerald and I must work,” said Jack, “and increase 
the family income.” 

“What can you do. Jack?” asked his mother, dismally. 
''You are too young to do anything. Gerald might get a 
clerkship.” 

“Oh, yes. mother !” said Grace, eagerly. “Mr. Lan- 
caster has already written to offer him one. I was going 


8 


A POOR RELATION. 


to tell you, only—” She stopped short, having just re- 
membered that she had concluded from the way in which 
Gerald mentioned it in his letter that he did not mean to 
accept it, and so had hesitated about letting their mother 
know lest she should be afterward disappointed. 

“That is good news,” said Mrs. Hartley, more cheer- 
fully than she had yet spoken. “Mr. Lancaster is a true 
friend.” 

“He is,” said Jack, with emphasis. 

“It’s a pity we have not some rich relations to help us 
just now,” said Maude. “We could do with a rich uncle, 
or aunt. To be sure there is papa’s cousin. Lord Granton. 
But he does nothing for us.” 

Mrs. Hartley sighed. “He is a selfish man,” she 
said. “We must not count upon hishel|3; and besides 
him we have no near relations.” And then, looking a 
little troubled at some recollections, she added: “At 
least, you have only your poor Uncle Jack, in America.” 

“We have hardly ever heard anything about him,” 
said Grace, thoughtfully. “He is papa’s brother, is he 
not, mother?” 

“Yes, a younger brother. I don’t know much about 
him. But he could not get on in England some way. 
Whatever he did he failed in, and so his friends persuaded 
him to go abroad. Your father was always very fond of 
him, and made excuses for his failures, and always de- 
clared that though he lacked experience, there was the 
making of a fine character in him. However, we will 
not talk about this any more. If your Uncle Jack is liv- 
ing I trust he will stay in America, for I’m afraid he will 
be no credit to us.” 

She looked so disturbed that Jack hastened to speak of 
something else. 


A POOR RELATION. 


9 


“If Gerald gets that clerkship,” he said, “and I get 
some sort of work as well, we shall be able to live more 
comfortably, shall we not, mother?” 

“Yes,” she replied, in a tone of relief. 

“I might get some pupils,” said Grace; “I shall try, 
anyway. What shall you do, Maude?” 

“Idl take care of mother,” said Maude, airily; “we 
must not all leave her.” 

“Maude always chooses the hardest work,” said Jack, 
laughing. 

Maude pretended to box his ears. and. just then, the 
door-window was darkened by the tall figure of a young 
man of twenty-two. 

“Maude, you tomboy ! ' exclaimed the newco ner, en- 
tering. 

“Why, Gerald!” cried Mrs. Hartley, “what a long 
time you have been in following us here ! But I’m so 
glad you have come at last, dear. ’ ’ And she looked with 
delight and pride at her eldest son’s handsome face and 
manly figure. ^ • 

He stooped to kiss her brow. “How do you do, moth- 
er? Thought I’d wait until you were quite settled before 
I troubled you with my presence,” and he sat down be- 
side her and held her hand, as if the most tender consid- 
eration for her had alone kept him from her side. 

“Troubled!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Gerald, home is 
not home without you, my boy,” and then she added: 
“But how thoughtful of you !” 

“Very,” said Grace, dryly. ''Jack helped us a great 
deal. I don’t know what we should have done without 
him.” 

“But, Grace,” cried Maude, “we couldn't expect Ger- 
ald to do such things-!” 


10 - 


A POOR RELATION. 

“Didn’t it occur to you, Gerald, that you might help 
us, too?” persisted Grace, ignoring Maude’s speech alto- 
gether. “You know,” she continued, “it isn’t as if you 
only did this once, but several times lately when there 
has been any work to be done you have got out of the way 
of it. Is that right, Gerald?” 

He looked at his white hands and smiled. “I don’t 
think the sort of help Jack gives you is much in my line,” 
he said. “Good heavens ! child, when I help you, it will 
be in a very different way. Wait until I get on, and then 
I’ll take you all to something — well, in a very different 
style from this,” and he looked "with contempt at the 
poor, inexpensive furniture the little room contained 
and shrugged his shoulders. 

• “That’s it,” cried Maude, triumphantly, “I knew he 
was thinking of doing great things for us all. You’ll 
make us all rich some day, won’t you, Gerald?” 

“Of course,” he returned, complacently. 

“Some day may be a long way off,” said Grace, coldly, 
“and meanwhile, meanwhile", *Gerald?” 

“Meanwhile, my dear Grace,” he said, a slight frown 
ruffling the serenity of his smooth brow, “I would ad-' 
vise you when you make observations to make pleasant 
ones.” 

“Yes, Grace,” said her mother, meaningly. 

The tears came into the girl’s eyes, but she said noth- 
ing. That was always the way with Gerald. If any one 
ever insinuated that his conduct was not perfect, instead 
of amending his ways, he hastened to assure them that 
they, or their observations, were not pleasant. Gerald, 
like many another, would fain have made away with ail 
prophets who did not prophesy smooth things. 

“I am sure,'’ said his mother, tearfully— she had all 


A POOR RELATION. 


11 


his life spoiled this, her first born — "no one wants to help 
us more than Gerald does. He is now going to take his 
father's place as head of the family, and I know, Grace, 
you mean well, but we must all give him the 7’especf that 
is due to his position.” 

Grace did not answer. She was kneeling down, ar- 
ranging some trifles on a little "what-not” in a corner of 
the room, and her thoughts were far away, with a new 
grave in a distant cemetery, where rested the remains 
of one who never misunderstood her. From her father 
she had learned many wise lessons, and among others to 
be silent when people would not see things as she did. 
‘‘Abbot Sampson,” he would say, quoting from a book he 
knew almost off by heart — ‘‘Abbot Sampson was not no- 
body because nobody thought anything about liim. A 
truth is true, whatever people say to tlie contrary, and 
there is not the slightest use in making a fuss about it.” 

‘‘You got my letter, Grace?” said Gerald, by way of 
showing her that he bore her no ill will. 

‘‘Yes,” .she answered, looking at him pleadingly, ‘‘and 
I have just been telling motli-'r about Mr. Lancaster’s 
kind offer.” 

"And, oh, Gerald, I am so pleased,” said Mrs. Hartley. 
"Yes. I know it is not what a University man looks for, 
but just now it will at least keep the wolf from the door 
until you liave time to hear of something else.” 

"And a University man, who has not yet got his de- 
gree — ” Jack was beginning, when a glance at his broth- 
er’s face made him stop short. 

"We’ll talk about this another time,” Gerald said to 
his mother, in a tone of much displeasure. 

Jack rose. "Well, I’m off,” he said, "so you needn’t 


12 


A POOR RELATION. 


■wait for another time.” j^d he left the room, shutting 
the door rather sharply after him. 

‘ ‘ How rude the boy is ! ” said Gerald*, still in a tone of 
great displeasure. “I don’t know what I*shall do with 
him, shut up here together in this little place.” 

“But you won’t be here, dear,” said his mother. ^‘If 
you accept the clerkship you will have to be in town. ’ ’ 

‘‘The clerkship?” he said, and knit his brows again. 
‘‘Oh, I didn’t accept it. What’s a hundred and twenty 
pounds a year? And to slave away at a desk !” 

“Surely you haven’t refused it?” cried his mother. 

“My dear mother,” he said, in a tone of horror, “it’s 
so caddish to sit on a high stool in an office all day, copy- 
ing, forever copying ! Would you doom your son to that?” 

“But — but there is nothing else at present,” she said. 
“Oh, Gerald ! say you have not refused it.” 

“I have. Lancaster ought to have known better than 
to have made the offer. I asked him how he would like 
a son of his own to have such a post. ’ ’ 

“And what did he say?” asked Grace, quietly. 

“That, Grace, I prefer not to repeat. Lancaster is low 
— decidedly low.” 

“He was your father’s friend,” said his mother, with 
something in her tone as near reproach as she could 
make it when the wrongdoer was Gerald. 

“My dear mother,” he returned, twirling his mustache, 
“you know father’s good nature. He was a friend to all 
the world. Fellows put upon him awfully.” 

“But, Gerald, what shall you do instead?” asked his 
mother. 

“Oh, I shall wait here until something turns up— that 
is, if you will have me,” and he smiled into her troubled 
face. 


A POOR RELATION. 


1 0 
o 

She began to cry, and hid her face against his shoulder. 
Grace stole away and left them. Poor mother ! And 
still poorer son ! What could the future do for them? 
for him? 

As Grace passed Jack’s tiny room, on her way to her 
own, he called her in. He was sitting on the little mat- 
tress he had appropriated for himself, because he consid- 
ered it too hard for any one else ; and his room looked 
more like a workshop than a sleeping apartment, so very 
crowded was it with tools and canvases, a big easel and 
one or two half-finished pictures. 

“Look here, Grace,” he said, “I’m going to give up my 
dreams of being an artist, just for a bit, and I’m going 
to do something more practical instead. I know short- 
hand and I can typewrite, and, what’s better still, I’ve 
got my own machine yet” — looking at a Barlock type- 
writer’s case which stood strapped up on the floor just as 
it had arrived. “And I found Rush ton is quite a big 
place, has its own newspaper, the Rushton and Pack- 
linton Advertiser, so I’m going off to the office there to 
see if I can get work — a reporter’s place, or something.” 

“That would be capital, ” said Grace ; “but perhaps they 
will have no vacancy.” 

“Well, I may not succeed, but I’m going off to try 
now. Wish me good luck. Grade,” and he rose and 
seized his cap. 

“Jack,” she whispered, as she kissed him and gave 
him a playful little push toward the door, “I can only 
say, whether you get success or not, you will deserve it.” 


14 


A POOR RELATION. 


CHAPTER TI. 

THE TURNERS. 

“Tlie world is happy, the world is wide, 

Kind hearts are beating on every side ; 

Ah ! v.'hy should we lie so coldly curled 
Alone in the shell of this great world?” 

— J. R. Lowell. 

It was a fine bright day in the beginning of October. 
Sunshine lighted up and beautified every object out of 
doors. It enhanced the splendors of the changing colors 
of the foliage eveiy where — on trees, hedges and hillsides, 
and stole into the hearts of mankind, bringing witli it 
the light of hope and health and beauty. 

Only in the large, low-roofed kitchen of Marburn Old 
Grange a cloud of darkness and depression seemed to 
gather about the presence of an old man greatly bent 
with the ravages of rheumatism, who cowered beside a 
glowing fire as if it were the depths of winter and he 
had only just come in out of the biting cold. 

“It’s these rheumatics,” he groaned. “I'm not the 
man I was, Mary; I’m not that.” 

A tall, straight, elderly woman, with a handsome, re- 
fined face, was ironing fine starched linen at the square 
table which stood in the middle of the spotlessly clean 
kitchen. She set down her iron on its stand and turned 
to look at her husband with tender pity in her eyes. 

“You’ve had a bad night, Job.” she said, “and a worse 
morning. But, please God, youTl get on all right again, 
with a little care. You didn’t ought to liave gone across 
them Avet turnip-fields yesterday. I knew how it would 
be when I seed you coming in all dripping.” 


A POOR RELATION* 


15 


“It would never have mattered at one time. I’m get* 
tin’ old, that’s it,’’ he grumbled. 

“And if old, so much nearer rest,’’ she said, gently, as 
she went on ironing. 

“Ay, but will it be rest?’’ he muttered,- but in so low 
a tone that she could only just hear him. 

“Surely, surely,” she replied, soothingly. “You’ve 
been a good man. Job; a good husband to me, a good 
master to your men and a good father to George, and 
when a man’s been all tliat he’s not left wi’out hope o’ 
rising higher.” 

“Have I been a good father to t’ lad, Mary?” asked 
the old man, despondently. “I did think once that I should 
have a good farm to leave him, and a nice bit o’ brass, 
same as my father left me. But you know I’ve had to 
part wi’ the best land, bit by bit, and a man can scarcely 
make a living out of ^ne rest. ’ ’ 

“But you’ve given George a grand education, Job, and 
he’s a clever lad; he’ll never look behind him,” said 
Mrs. Turner, with a smile of motherly pride. 

“But he ought to have as good a farm as my father 
left me,” went on the old man, querulously. “How is 
it that we’ve not got on and prospered like some o’ them 
as haven’t done half so rightly as we have? Look at 
that Crossland, now. Old Crossland were a right wicked 
man, drinkin’ and swearin’ awful, and his son’s not been 
so good as he out to ha’ been, neither. He’s a spendthrift 
an’ a lazy-bones ; you never see him doin’ a turn o’ work 
hisself. Too proud ’appen ! And yet them two’s pros- 
pered, and we haven’t.” 

His wife once more set down her iron, and came and' 
knelt on the’ thick rug beside him^ and laid her folded 
hands upon liis knee. “Job,” sha said, in a low, tender' 


16 


A POOR RELATION. 


tone, “don’t you remember it says in the Bible that some 
such thoiiglits as them came into the mind of the Psalm- 
ist when he said : ‘I have seen the wicked in great power, 
and spreading himself like a green bay-tree’? ” 

“Ay, ay,’’ he interrupted, “spreading hisself like a 
green bay-tree — that’s it — that’s Crossland.” 

“Whoever it is,” returned his wife, “so long as he’s 
wicked there’ll be punishment cornin’ to him. The next 
verse says : ' He passed awky, and lo, he was not ; yea I 
sought him, but he could not be found.’ ” 

“Could not be found,,” repeated her husband; “that’s 
him — that’s Crossland!” 

His wife began to- have misgivings as to hi^ state of 
mind. “I’d leave names out. Job,” she said, gently. 
“Meybee- the Almighty doesn’t like us to judge folk. 
That’s His'work. Now,” she hurried on, for Job did not 
like even such a mild remonstrance as this, and was open- 
ing his mouth to repeat his denunciation of his more 
prosperous but less upright neighbor, “let’s think of what 
folloM-s ; ye see, I know the. Psalm by heart, and the next 
verse is a favorite of mine. ‘Mark the perfect man’— 
Job, dear, we’ll try and be as perfect as we can— ‘mark 
the perfect man, for the end of that man is peace.’ ” 

“There’s some one cornin’ to the^door,” said the old 
man, petulantly. • 

His wife arose ; she, too, had caught sight of a lady 
passing die window on her way to the door. “Job,” she- 
said, “it’s Miss Hartley, You know I took the liberty of 
sending a few fresh eggs for her poor, delicate mother. 
She’ll have, come to thank me. Molly upstairs. I must 
go to the door,” and she hastened* from the kitchen. 

In a few moments she returned with Grace Hartley, 


A POOR RELATION. 


17 


who was thanking her very prettily for her kind present. 
The old man tried to rise, but she stopped him. 

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Turner,” she exclaimed; “don’t get 
up. I’m so sorry you are such a sufferer.” 

“You must excuse me, miss,” he said, giving up the 
attempt to rise. “Yes, I do suffer. I’m getting old, and 
I’m obliged to work sometimes. Times is bad for farm- 
ers, very bad ; gets worse and worse. ’ ’ 

Then Grace knew she stood before the “Job’ her 
brother Jack had described as not being of unparalleled 
patience. She tried to think of something comforting to 
say, but the puckered, discontented face seemed to chill 
all such thoughts as they rose, so she turned to Mrs. Tur- 
ner, and was struck with the sweet, patient expression 
of her face. 

■ “All! but you have a good nurse in your wife^ Mr. 
Turner,” she said, with a bright smile. “Why, it must 
almost charm the pain away to see her ironing those 
dainty frills so beautifully.” 

The old man’s face changed; he gave a little chuckle 
which was not unlike a laugh. 

“Ay, but you’ve hit it,” he said, “that’s the best com- 
fort I have, miss.” 

“A very good one,” she said; “but you know there is 
even better comfort than that.” 

“Nay, nay,” he returned, shaking his head, and begin- 
ning to grumble again about the rheumatics and the 
hard times. 

“Fon know what I mean, Mrs. Turner,” said Grace. 

“Yes, thank God, I do. And he will, too, some day,’ 
she said, with happy confidence. 

“Have you any daughters?” asked Gra6e.' - • 


IS 


A POOR RELATION. 


'‘No, only one son; only George,” answered Mrs. Tur- 
ner. “You’ve perhaps heard of our George, miss? 

Grace had heard of him. He was said to be very 
clever, and altogether a most superior young man. 

“He’s invented more than one thing which the farmers 
about here find very useful,” said Mrs. Turner, “and he s 
taken out patents for them ; but no money s come of it 
yet.” 

“Money’s hard to come by,’’ grumbled the old man. 

“Yes, it is.” said Grace, frankly, “but I don't see why 
we should break our hearts for that. There are many 
other good things — health, for instance — ” 

“Which I ’aven’t got,” he interrupted. 

“And love,” and she smiled at him, as much as to say. 
“You have that, at an rate,” and again her smile drew 
from him the nearest approach to a laugh that his wife 
had heard for a long time. 

“Ay, miss,” he said, “how you do get over me.” 

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think we ought to be al- 
ways looking on the dark side of things. I read these 
lines years ago in a magazine, and thought them so good 
that they stayed in my memory — 

“ ‘This life is all too sad for tears, 

I would not weep, not I, 

But smile along life’s onward path 
Until I smiling die. ’ 

Surely that is a braver way of bearing troubles than 
sighing over them all along. ’ ’ 

“Well, well, ’appen it is,” said the old man, “and I 
must be patient. But here’s George,” and again the win- 
dow was darkened for a moment by a passing figure. 

“Well, father.” said a rich and not uncultured voice, 
as a pleasaiit-looking young man of rather under middle 


A POOR' RELATION'. 


19 


height entered the kitchen, and then stopped short at 
sight of the visitor. 

“Well, my boy, here’s Miss Hartley.” 

George Turner bowed and took the girl’s offered hand 
with evident pleasure. He had seen her many times in 
church from his place in the choir : he had a good bari- 
tone voice, and whenever he was at home he helped with 
the singing. 

“She has been cheering your father up a little, ” said 
Mrs. Turner. 

“That was very kind of you,” he said to Grace. “Poor 
father has a hard time of it just now. He used to be so 
active, and now, just when he needs his activity the most, 
he is forced to sit still and leave the work to others.” 

Grace was astonished at his ease of manner and his re- 
fined speech. This was no ordinary young farmer ; and 
he did not in the least resemble his rough old father. 
But there was some likeness, more of expression than of 
feature, to his mother, and, like her, he held himself very 
erect. She glanced round the room. The floor was 
sanded, with a thick mat here and there, and before the 
fire a large home-made rag hearthrug, soft and clean 
and bright. Between the fireplace and the door there 
was a long, low lattice window, and in the broad win- 
dow-seat lay two or three books and magazines, while a 
wide oak writing-table stood before it, and a bookcase, 
well filled with books, stood between the windo w and the 
door. Mrs. Turner’s dresser, with its shining crockery 
and the polished dishcovers above it, stood against an- 
other wall, while before the window at the other side of 
the room there was another kitchen table, above which 
hung a cage containing a bullfinch. In one corner near 
'^this window stood a small American organ. 


20 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Do you play?” asked the girl, on seeing this, 

“A little,” he answered, modestly. 

“Do you like reading?” she asked again, as her eyes 
rested on the books. 

“Very much,” was the instant reply. “What could 
we in the country do without books?” 

“Ay, he’s a rare lad for his books,” replied the old 
farmer. “I should think he’s read all t’ books there is.” 

George hoped Grace had not heard this. But she 
laughed merrily, and exclaimed: “Why, Mr. Turner, 
how could he?” 

“Well, I never seed such a reader. The pai'son said 
once he’d read more about some things — poetry or some- 
thing — than he had hisself Glued to a book, that’s what 
he often is, and even when he was ever such a little lad 
it were the same. I never thrashed him but once, did I, 
mother? And that was ’cause he was so set on his book 
that he let the crows eat seed afore his very eyes when 
he was tenting in the field. ’ ’ 

“I can remember that, father,” said George, pleasantly. 
“You didn’t hurt me much, and when you found that 1 
had only been able to buy one volume of the two-volume 
book I Avas reading you brought me the other yourself 
that A^ery eA'eningf^ 

“What a nice ending to the story !” said Grace. Then, 
rising, she said that she must be going ; but the old man 
begged her so earnestly to stay and have a cup of tea 
Avith them tliat she sat doAvn again. 

Very much pleased at this— for she saAv that the visitor 
Avas doing her husband real good by diverting his mind 
from his troubles— Mrs. Turner fetched Molly, the maid, 
doAvnstairs to assist her in setting the table in her A^ery 
best style. Meantime. Grace talked to George, and he 


A POOR = RELATION. 


21 


talked to her, and the old man sat and listened, well con- 
tent, and sometimes throwing in an observation or a rem- 
iniscence of ‘Svhen George was a bairn.” 

“I find some difficulty in getting new books here,” 
said Grace, presently. “Of course there is no library, 
and — and we parted with most of our books when we had 
to come into a little — that is, when we came here.” 

“There is a very good library at Rushton,” said George. 

“Ah ! but that is so far off. I cannot spare time to go 
there and back often.” 

“But I often see your brother going and coming,” said 
George ; “what could be easier than to get him to change 
the books?” 

“Oh, Jack? He often has to carry a lot of books for 
his work when he’s reading up for an article. 1 should 
not like to trouble him to carry mine, too.” 

“For his work,” repeated George, in a puzzled tone; 
“he looks very young for work. May I ask what he 
does?” 

“Certainly. He has become a reporter and a sort of 
general contributor to the Rushton and Packlington Ad- 
vertiser,” and there was some pride in Grace’s tone. 

“He must be a clever young gentleman,” remarked 
Mrs. Turner, looking up from the bread she was cutting. 

“Yes, he is,” said Grace. “He’s very young to get an 
appointment like that. I only hope the work won’t be 
too heavy for him. It is a long way for him to go back-' 
ward and forward so often, and he has to go to other 
places as well. To-day he is at Packlington; he has 
gone to report a lecture which is to be given there this 
evening, and he’ll have to sit up writing all night after 
his return, so that it may appear in this week’s paper. 


22 


A POOR RELATION. 


He will liave to be at Riisliton with it by six o’clock in 
the morning.” 

“Well, now, George, you could give him a lift in the 
dogcart,” said Mrs. Turner, ‘‘for you have to be there by 
that time yourself to-morrow.” 

“May I call for him as I pass?” a.sked George. 

“Oh, certainly; he will be much obliged to you,” and 
the girl looked quite pleased. 

At tea-time, as they all, except the farmer, sat round 
the table, Mrs. Turner asked Grace how she liked Mar- 
burn. 

“Very much,” was,,the reply ; “it is such a pretty little 
village, and the people are so kind. They all, from Miss 
Ingham, who takes mj^ mother driving, to Mr. Crossland, 
who sends us game, and you, Mrs. Turner, who send 
eggs” — with a smile full of kindness — “seem to vie witli 
each other in being good to the strangers who have come 
among them.” 

“Well. I hope we know how to behave,” said Mrs. 
Turner. “Miss Ingham’s real kind, she is.” 

“I wouldn’t be for having much to do with yon Mr. 
Crossland,” struck in the old farmer, querulously ; “I 
wouldn’t take his game, nor nothin’, I wouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” asked Grace, in a tone of surprise. 

“Don’t you have nothin’ to do wi’ him,” continued the 
old man. 

Mrs. Turner hastened to change the subject, and began 
inquiring about Mrs. Hartley’s health. 

It was almost dark when the meal was over, and it 
.seemed quite natural that George should offer to see Miss 
Hartley home. 


A POOR RELATION. 


23 


CHAPTER III. 

PLOWING. 

f 

**.... Keep thy spirit pure 
From worldly taint, by the repellent strength 
Of virtue. Think on noble thoughts and deeds, 
Ever. Count o’er the rosary of truth ; 

And practice precepts which are proven wise. 

It matters not then what thou f earest. ’ 

'•—Bailey’s Feshis. 

• 

It was a clear, bright day in January. The pale win- 
try sunshine scarcely warmed the air, which was crisp 
and cold, although not frosty. There had been rain in 
the night, and in old Job Turner’s long four-acre field 
the smell of the damp eai*th as it was turned over by the 
plow was very pleasant. Ever since the break of day 
the patient horses and still more patient plowman had 
been at work, and now that it was close upon twelve 
o’clock the noonday rest would be very welcome. 

More than once George Turner had looked longingly 
toward where he had thrown a rug over the stump of a 
trefe in the hedge bottom. A book was tucked invitingly 
in the fold of the rug, and that more than the dinner- 
basket on the ground close by was what the young man 
wanted to get at. He was indeed a great reader; he 
dearly loved a good book, and this one he had fetched the 
day before from the library at Rushton and had not yet 
had time to read. 

‘T don’t mind plowing for once in a way,” he said to 
himself, “but it takes up so much time ; and there is that 


24 


A POOR RELATION. 


last invention of mine which wants a great deal of im- 
j)roving, and I meant to devote to-day entirely to it. 
AVell, I hope father won’t set liis heart upon having any 
more plowing done while Ben is ill. But Fm glad I 
didn’t refuse to come this time. I’ve pleased father, 
anyway, and that’s something. Gee.” This last admo- 
nition was to his horse. 

Old Job had nearly made himself ill the evening before 
with fretting because the plowman, Ben’s, illness threat- 
ened to prevent this field being plowed at once, and 
George had good-naturedly offered to do it. His mother 
had remonstrated, knowing that he had more important 
work on hand, and thinking that, as he was out of prac- 
tice and was never very strong, he would not be quite 
equal to it. But Job had cried: “Tut, tut, Mary, it’s 
skill, not strength, that is needed !” and then she had re- 
luctantly given way. She had called her son herself 
early that morning, and had come down to pour out his 
breakfast coffee, and when she had afterward given him 
his dinner-basket — for the field was too far off for him to 
return for dinner — she had looked so regretful that he 
had made light of the matter, and had declared that a 
rest from hard mental work and plenty of exercise in the 
02>en air was just what he most needed. 

And. indeed, at first, in spite of the hard work — for lie 
had not plowed for a year or two — George enjoyed the 
sweetness of the morning and did not by any means dis- 
like his task. But now he gladly turned aside to seek the 
shelter of the hedgeside, eat his dinner and enjoy his 
book. It was the first series of Obiter Dicta. 

The sunlight ])layed about the tired plowman as he 
read, and his horses fed contentedly beside him, while a 
few hungry crows flitted about the newly turned soil. 


25 


A POOR RELATION. 

It was a strange book for a plowman to be reading, with 
such deep interest as, presently, made him oblivious of 
all his surroundings. Sometimes a smile flitted across 
' his face, and again he would pause and half close the 
volume as he pondered over some new idea. He had 
drawn his rug over his shoulders and felt no cold, Jan- 
uary though it was. And now he was reading about 
Coleridge, that “he was a man neglectful of restraint, 
irresponsive of the claims of those who had every claim 
upon him, willing to receive, slow to give,” and how, in 
early manhood, he planned a “Pantisocracy” where all 
the virtues were to thrive, while the far nobler Charles 
Lamb “did something far more diflicult; he played crib- 
bage everj^ night with his imbecile father, whose con- 
stant stream of querulous talk and fault-finding might 
well have goaded a stronger man into practicing and 
justifying neglect.” 

Lamb, knowing his friend’s failings, wrote to him : 

“Oh, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings ! and let no 
man think himself released from the kind charities of 
relationship ; these shall give him peace at the last ; these 
are the best foundations for every species of benevolence. 
I rejoice to liear that you are reconciledVith all your re- 
lations.” 

“I’m glad I came to do this plowing to-day,” said 
George to himself, looking up from Ins book for a mo- 
ment. “And that is wliy I like Miss Hartley so much; 
she seems to be always caring for the welfaie of one oi 
another of her relations. Now it is Jack, whose strength 
she is afraid will break down under his strenuous exer- 
tions— also for the good of his family— or, again, she is 
anxious to secure some pleasure for Iver young sister or 
some dainty for lier mother. She never seems to think 


26 


A' POOR RELATION. 


of herself. Well, all the more reason why some one 
should think of her. ” And he smiled. 

Presently he went on reading Lamb’s exquisite 
“Dream Children.” But when he reached the words, 
“It is bravery, truth and honor, loyalty and hard work, 
each man at his post, which makes this planet habitable,” 
he closed the book, pulled off his rug, sppke cheerily to 
his horses, and betook himself once more to his plowing, 
and as he did so his thoughts were still with Grace Hart- 
ley. 

He had seen a good deal of her since the day on which 
she first called to see his father. And who was so brave 
as she, so true,' so honorable and loyal and hardwork- 
ing, and always at her post of duty? Calling frequently 
for Jack, in his dogcart, when on his way to Rushton, 
and setting him down again at their door, had given him 
opportunities of, at all events, brief glimpses of her; and 
then Jack had sometimes persuaded him to stay to supper. 
And at other times he had talked much of his elder sis- 
ter, whom he admired immensely and strove in many 
ways to emulate. And finding she did his father good 
by her bright little visits, Grace had often tried to return 
his kindness to her brother by going to see the old* man. 
Sometimes on these occasions she sang for Job ; George 
heard her once, and thought he had never heard a- 
sweeter singer. ‘ Now and again she stayed to tea, and 
George had the great happiness of accompanying her 
home in the gloaming— that most enjoyable time for lov- 
ers. They then exchanged many little confidences, sim- 
ple enough in their way, and yet revealing the inmost 
thoughts of each to each, and causing them to discover 
with sweet surprise that they possessed affinities of mind 
and soul altogether surprising and delightful. 


A POOR RELATION. 


27 


iVnd then to these two “this world seemed not the 
world it was before,’’ and it was therefore no wonder 
that, as George pursued his humble occupation that win- 
try afternoon, his mind was full of thoughts of Grace. 

Sometimes, as the hours wore on, he heard a distant 
whoop, or the shouts of men and boys, and the blast of a 
horn which resounded through the air; and then his 
horses would show signs of sympathy, and he would gaze 
round to espy, perhaps in the far distance, a pack of 
hounds sweeping in full cry across the countryside, fol- 
lowed by horsemen and horsewomen not a few. But he 
did not leave bis work, as Ben would have done in his 
place, to go the length of the field or more to see the hunt 
that was going on. • 

As his task was Just about drawing to an end, and the 
light of the short winter day was already waning, sev- 
eral hunting men and women leaped over, or broke 
down, a fence at one end of the field and came riding 
leisurely across it. On they came, nearer and nearer, 
the beautiful hunters stepping lightly over the freshly 
turned furrows, wliile tlieir owners chatted together as 
they rode. 

There was Kate Ingham, the squire’s daughter, and by 
her side rode Gerald Hartley, who had borrowed a horse 
from Eustace Ingham. He and his mother and sisters 
had become very friendly with the Hall people, who 
were glad to find that the inmates of Ivy Cottage were 
gentlefolks, and that youth and beauty and culture com- 
bined to make them an acquisition to the neighborhood. 
Gerald was still living a-t home on his mother and sisters' 
slender resources, supplemented by Jack’s hardly earned 
salary. 

Frank C’rossland, tlie gentleman - farmer who lived 


28 A POOR RELATION. 

with his mother in the large house standing just outside 
the village, was also there, riding by Eustace Ingham’s 
side. He was rather small but well proportioned, hand- 
some, too, though the expression of his face was not 
agreeable. He evidently thought a great deal about his 
dress and appearance. Eustace Ingham’s fair, intellect- 
ual-looking face was a striking contrast, so sweet and re- 
fined was its expression. But he looked intensely bored, 
as the other talked to him on first one topic and then an- 
other. If he could have chosen his companion, the young 
squire, as he was often called, would far rather have been 
talking to the young man who was plowing. 

Gerald himself had not disdained to accept Turner’s 
friendly offer of a* drive to Rushton, now and again, so , 
that he knew him very well; but now, as they passed, 
and he saw his occupation, he did not appear to see his 
friendly nod. And as he turned to his companion, he 
made some slighting remark about humble tillers of the 
soil. 

Kate Ingham purposely answered aloud: “Did not 
Burns plow? Was not Whittier at work in the fields 
when the postman brought him the news of his first pub- 
lished poetry? After that field-work becomes quite clas- 
sical.” ' 

Hearing this, George took his cap oft' and waved it , 
merrily-; and the girl rode up to him and held out her 
hand, exclaiming: “You shame us all with your indus- 
try, Mr. Turner, when we are only killing time with 
sport. But, oh, we have had such a lovely run !” « 

“It has been such a nice day,” said George, as much at 
ease as he stood there, in his shirt-sleeves, as if he were 
in her drawing-room. 

Gerald, on the contrary, colored deeply as he rode on, 


A POOK RELATION. 


29 


feeling conscious that his companion was ashamed of his 
rudeness, and fuming inwardly against the “churl” Tur- 
ner, who had been the innocent cause of his making this 
mistake. • 

“I must look after my sister,” remarked Ingham^ go- 
ing back to her, and thus escaping from Crossland, who 
immediately attached himself to Gerald. 

“So Miss Ingham has deserted you for the plowman?” 
he said, insinuatingly. “Well, there’s no accounting for 
tastes. Do you know him? I thought he seemed to rec- 
ognize you.” 

“Ah! 'Well,” said Gerald, patronizingly, ‘they are 
neighbors ; and I think my sister has taken a little no- 
tice of his poor old parents. It’s just Grace’s way ; she 
loves to do that sort of thing. She visits them sometimes. 
Yes, I’ve spoken *to him once or twice.” He spoke im- 
patiently, and now wheeled round his horse to look back 
at Kate Ingham. 

The girl had dismounted, with her brother’s help, and 
was now trying to plow, much to George Turner’s amuse- 
ment. 

“The young Inghams have taken him up. He goes in 
for being cultured, you know ; reads poetry and all that 
sort of thing,” continued Crossland. 

“Quite a mistake, quite a mistake,” said Gerald, with 
the air of a man of the wmrld. “Keep people in their 
places, I say; don’t turn their heads.” 

“Oil, the mishief is already done with Turner,” 
sneered Crossland. “He’s got a soul quite above farm- 
ing, I can assure you. Thinks a mighty lot of himself.” 

“Of course,” said Gerald; “they always do when they 
get educated a little above their position. ^ 

Crossland next inquired about Gerald’s sisters. He 


30 


A POOR RELATION. 


had met them once or twice and been much ■stnick witn 
their beauty. But 'Gerald answered hirii. irather shortly, 
and suggested that they Should return to the oxners. 

As they rode up to them Kate Ingham exclaimed mer- 
rily : “Mr. Hartley, I’cah’t do it; I can’t plow. Put me 
up, Eustace; I won’t try any longer.” 

In two minutes they were all riding away again, 
laughing and diatting as before, and George was alone, 
turning the last furrow before leaving off work. 

One little star came out and glimmered down upon 
him; far off iff the distanfce he could hear the noise of 
the horse’s hoofs gro\Ving less and of other laborers tak- 
ing home their tired horses. A dog barked, here and 
there, and, no-vy and again, the sound of some vehicle 
passing along the road' was to be heard. 

George’s thoughts followed those who had just been in 
the field. How different their lot was from his own ! It 
seemed as if their path through life would be so much 
easier, and yet he would not change places with any one 
of them. Poor he might be. It was true the farm was 
deteriorating in value, so that in regard to his heritage 
he would probably be even poorer in the future. But 
what of that? He liked work, and, if poor, he would 
have a motive for work which would spur him on to 
greater efforts. At least he would do his best to smooth 
his mother’s declining years. She should feel no pinch 
of poverty while he lived — and then there was Grace. 
Full of pleasant thoughts about her, and feeling satisfied 
that he had done a good day’s work, he set off home- 
ward, riding one of his horses because he was tired. 

As he entered the village Grace and Maude Hartley 
passed him. “The former looked surprised as she bowed, 
l>ut would have stopped to speak to him* if her sister had 


A POOR RELATION. 


31 


not hurried her on. It was plain the younger girl did 
not wish to be seen talking to him just then ; and it was 
too dark for liim to see the reluctance with which Grace 
complied with her wishes. 

George felt disappointed. Still, no doubt he would see 
her again soon. 

The ciatter of a horse’s hoofs upon the stony village 
street made him look round. It was Crossland, who had 
been staying a little at the Hall, having afternoon tea 
with the Inghams. He did not notice George as he 
passed. But when, a few minutes after, George went by 
Ivj^ Cottage he saw a small boy holding Crossland’s horse 
outside, and knew that he must be paying a friendly visit 
there as well. • 

George hoped that he would not become too intimate 
with the Hartleys. 

CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE SPRINGTIME. 

‘Tn the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to 

thoughts of love.” • 

— Tennyson. Locksley Hall. 

“Love wakes men, once a lifetime each, 

Tliey lift their heavy lids, and look ; 

And lo : what one sweet page can teach. 

They read with joy, then shut the book. 

“And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, 

And most forget ; but either way, 

That and the child’s unheeded dream 
Is all the light of all their day.” 

— Coventry Patmore. 

One morning, in the following month, Grace came into 
the dining-room from the kitchen, where she had been 


32 


A' POOR RELATION. 

making jelly for Ker mother, who seemed more delicate 
than usual, to find Gerald exclaiming : “But, mother, it’s 
preposterous ! I must have some money ; I say I must ! 
Do you mean to tell me we are penniless?” 

‘‘Well, no, dear, not quite that; but Grace and I are so 
anxious to keejTout of debt, and — ” The poor lady hes- 
itated. < i i 

“Gerald,” exclaimed Grace, warningly, as she entered, 
“remember what Dr. Weston said.” 

Their old family physician had said to them, more than 
once, that worry of any kind might prove fatal to their 
mother, who had heart disease. 

“Confound it!” said Gerald, turning on her, “what is 
a nian to do when he is in a fix like mine? I owe five 
pounds; only five pounds,” he repeated, mentioning the 
^sum as contemptuously as if it were five farthings, “to 
that little cad of a tailor at Rushton, and the man has the 
impudence to come over here for it, though I expressly 
told him that I would call and pay him some day when I 
was passing.” . • 

“My dear, is the man.here, in the house, dunning us?” 
exclaimed his mother, in accents of utmost distress. 

“He won’t be here long, mother, dear,” said Grace. 
“I have a little money ; I will send him away. But, Ger- 
ald,” and she spoke very gravely, “this ‘must not occur 
again.” 

She left the room, and Mrs. Hartley began to cry hys- 
terically. Maude, coming in, scolded Gerald and soothed 
her mother by turns. 

Grace took the man his money ; it was all she had. 
She returned to her room very thoughtful. It was quite 
impossible that they could live and maintain Gerald, as 
he had insisted upon being maintained, on their little in- 


A POOR RELATION. 


33 


come. Sometliing must be done. It was not enough for 
Jack to work. She must work, too. She had already 
tried to get pupils, but teachers of all kinds were plenti- 
ful at Rushton, and in the village there were only poor 
children who went to the national school. 

“I must not be ashamed to work with my hands,” said 
the girl to herself, after a long meditation. “George 
Turner is not, and why should I be? He is far cleverer 
than I, yet he plows. I cannot plow; I can only sew.” 

There and then she formed a resolution, which enabled 
her, when she carried it into practice, to occasionally 
liave the great pleasure of placing much needed money 
in her motlier’s hands. 

But the occupation, she chose left her scanty leisure ; 
that, however, seemed more enjoyable than it had ever 
been. Truly life is full of compensations. 

Yet, with all her hard work, Grace did not neglect her 
friends, the Turners, and many a talk with George sent 
her back to her task strengthened and encouraged to pur- 
sue it with renewed energy. 

Maude watched the growing intimacy between her 
sister and the young farmer with anything but pleasure. 
Wiiat would be tlie end of it all? Grace was no flirt. 
Slie was always in earnest when she pursued any line of 
conduct. Maude knew that she was perfectly aware 
what she was doing. She had never had such pleasure 
in the society of any young man before, and she had 
never shown one so much favor. 

“I declare, Grace,” said Maude, one afternoon, when 
she found her sister, in one of her rare intervals of leis- 
ure, reading a book of Turner’s, “you are going too far 
with Mr. Turner ! How can you let him lend you books?” 

• “Why should I not?” asked Grace;^ raising dier pretty 


34 


A POOR RELATION. 


eyebrows in surprise. “I think I saw you reading a book 
of young Mr. Ingham’s the other day.” 

“That was different,” exclaimed Maude; “young Mr. 
Ingham is our equal and George Turner is not.” 

“Indeed !” said Grace ; and, turning again to her book,' 
he went on reading, though with a slight flush on hers’ 
cheeks. 

“Grace, listen to me,” said Maude, angrily. “You have 
no pride, no family spirit, or you would not think of — ” 

“Maude, I will hear no more of this,” said Grace, in a 
tone which showed Maude that she must not venture to 
say any more, for, gentle and sweet-tempered as Grace 
was, she could be very indignant when unwisely inter- 
fered with. 

As for George Turner, it was a very trying time 'for 
him. The more he grew to love Grace the more he felt 
dismayed at the poverty which before had not much 
troubled him. He was in no position to propose* to any 
girl, much less to one so delicately bred and with such 
cultured tastes as Grace. The farm was going down, 
the land deteriorating in value. He had almost no cap- 
ital to spend on it, an insufficient number of men to work 
it, very little stock, and that not of the best-paying kind. 
People were timid about trying his inventions. If he 
were to make Grace an offer, and if — oh, blissful 
thought ! — she were to accept him, they would have to 
wait perhaps many years before they could marry. If 
he were free to go to other parts, and take an agency of 
some kind, then things might be better for them ; but he 
felt that he could not do that while his parents lived. He 
was their only child. They clung to the land, to the 
house in which they had lived for almost half a century ^ 
together, and in which Job’s ancestors had lived for gen- 


A POOR RELATION. 


35 


erations ; it would break their liearts to take them away. 
And they could not keep tlie place going at all without liis 
help. So George told himself, again and again, that he 
must not propose to his beloved. And yet he could not 
bring himself to avoid her sweet presence ; nay, he could 
not refrain from seeking it again and again. 

One fine afternoon, in the early part of April, Grace 
found time to go to one of the nearest meadows to seek 
for violets, as l)er mother had expressed a great wish to 
liave some, and the Turners had told her that the earliest 
ones were to be found there under a sheltered hedgeside. 

The fresh, sweet air was delightful after many hours 
spent indoors ; but the girl searched badly, for her 
thoughts were full of George. She had been dreaming 
about him, and she could not remember any of her di*eam 
excei)t that his beautiful brown eyes liad been looking 
appealingly at her. 

And now, all at once, he stood before her, his riding- 
whip in hand, his patient horse looking calmly at them 
from tlie field-gate, where he had left him while he 
stepped softly across the grass, and he was pointing si- 
lently to where three little violets hung their modest 
heads beneath an overspreading leaf. 

“Oh, thank you!” said Grace, stooj)ing over the flow- 
ers to hide her confusion at his sudden appearance; 
‘'they are the first I have found. They are most lovely.” 

“Fou are most lovely,” he said, with sudden vehe- 
mence, forgetting all prudential resolutions in that mo- 
ment of intense feeling, as his eyes rested with delight on 
her beautiful face and the graceful lines of her tall figure. 

“Mr. Turner,” she began, confusedly. 

He took her hands and tried to look into her blushing 
face. “Oh, Grace,” he said, I must speak. I can keep 


36 


A POOR RELATION. 


silence no longer.” And then he told her what she was 
to him and how he loved her with all his soul ; and the 
girl trembled as* she listened, and could not say a w^ord 
for very joy, and dared not raise her drooping eyelids 
lest he should read the answer there too plainly. 

But her silence alarmed George. Surely he had not 
been mistaken 1 The idea was almost more than he could 
bear. 

“Oh, Grace, Grace ! why did you come here?” he 
cried. “Why did you cross my path to steal away my 
peace? Before you came I was content, but now you 
have filled me with unavailing longings. Why did you 
come? Are you a second Lady Clara Vere de Vere? Did 
you come to steal away my country heart for pastime?” 

“George !” The girl stopped him in a tone of the ten- 
derest reproach, w^hile she looked up at him through eyes 
which shone with love’s own light. 

“My darling !” he cried, rapturously, folding her in his 
arms in the sweet, sacred silence of that secluded spot, 
where Nature herself seemed to sympathize with their 
joy. 

When they were a little calmer, and, having left the 
violets, were walking down the field together, George 
spoke of the hesitation he had in telling her of his love 
because he was so poor ; it seemed better to wait until he 
had something definite to offer. 

“Poor, George, dearest?” replied Grace, with a smile, 
“then we are well matched, for I am poor enough.” , 

“I have to do quite humble work,”, he said, ruefully. 

“And I,” she interrupted, “I do very humble work.” 

“You know, dearest, you seemed so far above me,” he 
went on, “some people might say you were going to 
marry a plowman.” 


A POOR RELATION. 


37 


“People wouldn’t say that to me,” she retorted, stoutly. 
“Besides, let people say what they like; it isn’t a man’s 
work but the spirit in which he does it that shows what 
he really is,” and she looked proudly at him. “And, if 
people knew everything, they might say that I was only 
—a—” 

“Only a what, dearest?” said George, looking at her 
with an air of surprised amusement. 

“Oh, well, never mind now; that’s a secret. But, at 
any rate, it’s something quite as bad as being a plow- 
man.” 

“You don’t seem ashamed of it, anyway,” said George, 
with a smile. ^ ‘ 

“Ashamed ! Not a bit of it.” 

“Sometimes,” said George, “I was quite afraid to hope,* 
when I thought of your grand relations — Lord Granton — ” 

“Lord Granton ’s grandfather was only a poor miner 
when he began his career. And your ancestors have 
owned their own land and been honest yeoman-farmers 
for over three hundred years ; your father told me so. I 
don’t suppose any of your ancestors were hanged?” 

“Hanged!” cried George, in astonishment. “No, but 
you don’t mean to say that any of yours—” 

“Well, no,” said she, interrupting him and shaking 
her head sagely. “I can’t say that they were hanged ex- 
actly, but poor papa used to say that two or three of 
them, at least, ought to have been hanged. He was very 
plain-spoken at times. Perhaps you will begin to be 
ashamed of me now?” and she looked archly at him. 

George’s answer need not be repeated. They had 
reached the gate now, and Grace patted the patient 
horse, and smiled into the big, mild eyes, which seemed 
to ask her why she had detained his master so long. • 


38 


A POOR RELATION, 


"You see," said George, "I ought not to liave spoken 
yet until I got on, but how could I wait? Wlien — 

YVe two stood there, with never a third, 

But eacli by each, as each knew well ; 

The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, 

Tlie lights and the snades made up a spell 
Till the trouble grew and stirred. 

" ‘Oh, the little more, and how much it is ! 

And tlie little less, and what worlds away ! 
After all, it was a great risk — 

To gain a lover and lose a friend. ’ " 

Then Grace answered, smiling, by quoting from the 
same exquisite idyll — 

" ‘Had she willed it, still had stood the screen 
So slight, so sure, ’twixt my love and her. ’ 

‘‘Yes, it was so. George, and you can’t deny it. I am 
equally to blame with you for what has happened. But, 
oh ! I would not have it otherwise." 

‘‘Nor I." he said, rapturously. 

And now they wei;e walking along the lane toward Ivy 

Cottage, George with his bridle over his arm .and the 

horse stepping gently along behind them, as if in full 

sympatliy with their happiness. 

‘‘I’m afraid we shall have to wait until I can get an 

agency somewhere near," said George, ‘‘for while my 

father and mother live I must manage their farm as well. 

And I don’t think any one is likely to want an agent 

about here for some time ; that is the worst of it. ’’ 

v 

‘‘AVell. we can wait," said Grace. ‘‘You know I can- 
not leave my mother while she is so delicate, and I some- 
times fear she will never be stronger," and slie sighed. 


A POOR relation/ 


39 


“Do you think it will vex her to be told about this?” 
asked George, doubtfully. 

“Not if it is told her ‘properly, as I shall tell it,” said 
^ Grace ; “but I think for her sake’ it w^ould be better not to 
let everybody know about it at present, or others might 
put it in a less desirable light, and then she might worry. ” 
Grace was thinking how vexed Maude and Gerald would 
be, especially the latter, and she did not wish them to be 
able to trouble their mother with their comments. 

“Very well, then, at present only your mother and my 
parents shall know,” said .George. “My father and 
mother won’t tell any one if I ask them not to do so. 
They see very few people, so they will not have much 
temptation to speak of the matter.” 

“And I know it will be all right with mother,” said 
Grace, brightly. “The others will be out this evening, 
but I am going to stay at home with her. Perhaj)s, 
George, if you were to come in about nine o’clock?” 

“I will, I will,” he said, delightedly. 

Then they parted. But they did not meet that evening. 
Instead, George received a sorrowful little note from 
Grace,' saying that in spite of her anticipations to the 
contrary, she had been quite unable to get her mother to 
see the matter as they had hoped she would see it. Mrs. 
Hartley, it seemed, had views of her own about her 
daughters’ marriage. She had married a rich man her- 
self, and she would never consent to their marrying poor 
men. She positively refused to see George, and had be- 
come so ill at the thought of his marrying Grace that the 
latter had been obliged to promise her that she would 
.never become engaged to him without her consent. 

“But, oh, I love you,” wrote poor Grace, “and I tliank 


40 


A POOR RELATION. 


you for your love. I shall never, never, marry any one 
else.” 

“She never sliall,” said George to himself, as he read 
this, and there was a brave light in his eyes as he sat 
down and wrote his regret that Mrs. Hartley would not 
consent to their engagement now, and also his determina- 
tion to work hard and win for her daughter a home and 
an income which even she would not despise. 

In a postscript he added : “Fortunately I have not told 
my parents. Do not fear to come and see them as before, 
for I will not speak of this, and if we both act as usual 
no one need know anything about it.” 


CHAPTER V. 
grace’s occupation. 


“Oh, small beginnings, ye are great and strong. 
Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain. 

Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, 

Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain.” 

— J. Russell Lowell. 

“I WONDER what Grace’s perpetual sewing means?” 
said Maude to herself, one fine afternoon, when Grace 
had gone to see the Turners. “Stitch! stitch! stitch! she 
is forever stitching ! I’m sure it will be the ‘Song of the 
Shirt’ over again, only, as far as I can make out, it is al- 
ways some part of a dress she is sewing. And I never 
see her with a new dress on. I’m sure she wears all hers 
until they are quite, quite shabby. .And then she locks 
herself up in lier room for hours together at a time. 


11 


A POOR RELATION. 

What does it all mean? And how does she get those nice 
little sums of money which she always contrives to let 
mother have just when money is most heeded? She must 
earn it in some way by her constant sewing. I’ll have a 
look at her room while she is out. ” 

The -girl hurried upstairs full of serious intention. 
Grace was working very hard. Grace was earning 
money. How did she do it? It was clearly necessary 
that Maude should know what was going on. 

Her sister’s little bedroom was scrupulously neat and 
tidy ; not a thing was out of its place. But the carpet ! 
Maude went down on her knees to examine it. Minute 
shreds of lining, ends of cotton, tiny scraps of silk ; here 
a hook there an eye, an end of tape, a bit of braid, a 
whole quarter of a yard of lining under the bed valance, 
a reel of silk twist under the chest of drawers. 

“She might be a dressmaker!’’ exclaimed Maude. 
Then, rising from her knees, she looked on the table. Her 
sister’s workbox was locked. There was a pair of large 
“cutting-out” scissors beside the small hand sewing ma- 
chine, which had been Grace’s property for two or three 
years ; in fact, ever -since she had, in their richer days, 
got her mother’s maid, a skilled dressmaker, to teach her 
the art and mystery of dressmaking. 

A copy of ah illustrated journal upon the table next 
attracted Maude’s attention. “Fashions!” she exclaimed, 
opening it and seeing various styles of gowns on the 
usual wasp-waist figures and doll-faced maidens that 
fashion-plate artists love to de'pict. “Well,” said Maude 
to herself, “Grace studying the fashions ! This is some- 
thing new!” 

She looked round the room to see if there were any- 
thing else' unusual. ' Yes, the key was in the lock of 


42 


A POOR RELATION. 

» 

Grace’s wardrobe. That was an unusual circumstance. 
She had often wondered why her sister always kept her 
wardrobe locked and never left the key about. The lit- 
tle mystery had perplexed her in idle moments. Now, 
at last, she could satisfy her curiosity. Going quickly to 
the wardrobe, she opened the door and saw at once two 
or three partly made gowns, two bodices without sleeves, 
two half-finislied dress-skirts, and a child’s frock. On 
the shelf above were two or three rather worn bodices, 
and some letters half thrust into their envelopes. 

Maude gave a sigh of dismay. This, then, was what it 
meant. Her sister, a Hartley, half-cousin to Lord Gran- 
ton, was earning her living by dressmaking ! 

But how had she been able to do it so quietly ? Maude* 
had never 'seen any stranger lady come ; neither had any 
carriage waited at their gate while its mistress submitted 
to be “tried on.” How did Grace get her customers? 

A copy of the Lady's Advertiser and Mart, at* the bot- 
tom of the wardrobe, next attracted Maude’s attention. 
Taking it up, slie examined it carefully. At the end 
there were several advertisements — servants wanted, 
servants wanting places, governesses .and tutors seeking 
pupils, literary people wanting amanuensises, typewriters 
needing work at so much a thousand woi*ds, shorthand 
and typewriting clerks in need of situations. Dress- 
makers — ah ! what was this? Her eye rested on the fol- 
lowing advertisement ; 

“Ladies can have their gowns well and fashionably 
made for six and eleven pence, by sending material, with 
a well-fitting bodice, ^nd the length of skirt, back and 
front, to G., Ivy Cottage. Marburn, Rushton, Kent.” 

This, then, was how Grace got her employers and 


43 


A POOR RELATION. 

earned the money which, alas ! was only too often hand- 
ed over eventually to Gerald for his cigars and all the 
other little luxuries — necessaries, he called them — which 
he so often pathetically declared he could not live with- 
out. 

Did her mother know? Maude seized the paper and 
set off with it to her mother’s room, intending to show it 
to her. When she had reached her door, however, she 
began to have misgivings as to the tindness of the act. 
If her mother did not know how Grace employed her 
time, and by what means she obtained her customers, it 
would give her pain fo discover it. If she knew, what 
was the use of telling her? Besides, it was Grace’s se- 
cret ; would it not be mean to reveal it without her leave? 

Slowly Maude returned to Grace’s room; but there 
was a frown upon her pretty face as she did so. If the 
Inghams got to know, what would they think? The 
squire would say that it was only what he expected, 
Eustace would be intensely surprised; she could not 
bear to think of that. How Grace would lower them all 
in his eyes. It was too bad of her. Sooner or later every- 
body would find out, about it — and then, well, she, for 
one, did not relish the thought of being looked upon as a 
dressmaker’s sister. How wild Gerald would be! But 
the thought of him brought Maude to a more reasonable 
state of mind. Was it not his doing that the little house- 
hold was so often sorely pinched for money? They had 
just enough to live upon, in their quiet, economical way, 
if they had not him to maintain and his expenses to pay. 
Why did he not get some work to do? Oh, it was very 
wrong of him to refuse the clerkship their friend, Mr. 
Lancaster, had offered him. His pride, his conduct had 
driven poor Grace to this. Anything, she thought, was 


44 


A POOR • RELATION. 


better than seeing their mother distressed for want of 
money. After all, it was very good of Grace. And how 
kind of her to keep the matter secret, lest they should be 
grieved. How hard she must have worked. §he had 
looked very pale lately. This was evidently the reason. 

“And she never asked me to help her,” said Maude to 
hei*self. “Perhaps she thought I should not like it. Well, 
I don’t, but all the same if she does it I must help her. 
What a lazy life I’ve been leading while she was toiling 
in this way.” 

In a sudden fit of penitence Maude took up some of the 
unfinished work, and sitting down at the table began to 
sew with feA-erish haste, as if to make up for lost time. 
Her face was. flushed, partly with anger, a little with 
shame, and partly also with a praiseworthy determina- 
tion to be a little more like Grace. 

“Why, Maude’” exclaimed the latter, coming in, afte^ 
an hour’s absence, and finding her thus employed, “what 
are you doing?” . 

Maude looked up smilingly. “Oh, Grace!” she said, 
“I’ve found out all your secret, and I’m very angry— 
that is, I admire you very much, but I think it’s a shame ; 
and I think it’s beautiful, and yet so foolish, and still so 
sensible, and — ” 

“You dear little Irishwoman !” cried Grace, interrupt- 
ing her by giving her a kiss, “I’m sure you must not 
argue any more about it, for you talk the veriest rubbish. 
Oh, what a nice lot you have done !— that was such a 
tedious piece of work. Why, we shall get on twice as fast 
if you help me sometimes.” 

Throwing ofl:’ her hat and jacket and bathing her face 
and liands was the work of a few moments. Then Grace 
seated herself at her machine, and with a most business- 


• A POOR ‘relation. ' 45 

; ' I 

like air set to work at another part of the same gown 
Maude was sewing. For a little time tlie sisters worked 
in silence, then Maude exclaimed angrily: “I shall tell ' 
Mr. Gerald what we are driven to do.” 

“I have told him,” said Grace, quietly. 

“Have you? When? He never told me. ” 

“I told him yesterday, when he wanted more money . 
from mother.” 

“What did he say?” asked Maude, breathlessly. 

“He begged me to keep the matter secret. Spoke of 
it as a temporary affair; was very vexed, of course, an^ 
lamented our hard fate.” 

“And did it not lead him to do anything himself?” de- 
manded Maude. 

“Yes, he did do something, unfortunately.” Grace’s 
tone was full of pain. “He went straight to his room ' 
and wrote to Lord Granton. I did not see his letter ; I’m 
afraid, though, that he made a strong appeal to him for 
help.” 

“I wonder how it is that Gerald is ashamed to work — 
at the* only things within his reach— and yet is not 
ashamed to beg or borrow?” 

“Borrow? Does he borrow?” asked Grace, looking’ 
more dismayed still. 

Maude burst into tears. . “Yes,” she sobbed, at length; 

“ isn’t it a shame? He borrowed of— of Mr. Ingham.” 

“Young Mr. Ingham?” 

“Yes. It was the day of the last hunt. I know Ger- 
ald had no money in the morning, and I saw Mr. Ing- 
ham pass him some later in the day. And Gerald just 
said, ‘Awfully obliged,’ in his careless way, as if it was 
a matter of the greatest indifference.” 

Grace sighed. 


46 


A POOR RELATION. 


“I do feel so ashamed, so vexed,” said Maude. “I 
think of it every time I meet Eiis — I mean Mr. Ingham. 
I’d rather he had borro^^ed of any one else,” she added, 
naively. 

“I hope you scolded Gerald well.” 

“I did. I said the very next time he did such a thing 
I should tell ^ 

Grace was silent. It was not nice to be a sort of fam- 
ily policeman. Gerald stood in more awe of her than of 
any one. but it hurt the gentle girl inexpressibly to have 
to pain him. 

"Oh, Graciel” sighed Maude, ‘‘how wretched it is to 
be poor I What will the Inghams think when tliey know 
about this?” and she pointed to the gown they were 
making. 

“Kate knows,” replied Grace. 

“Knows?” cried Maude, in astonishment. 

“Yes,” replied Grace, smiling. . 

“Why, how could she find out? Does Gerald know 
that she knows?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“How did she find out?” repeated Maude. 

“Through this,” answered Grace, pointing to tlie ad- 
vertisement. “She came here with the journal in lier 
hand, and sat down beside me, threw her arms round me 
and was so sweet— just like herself— she wanted me to 
make her a dress and charge double for it, and I made 
her one— that pretty white one she wore yesterda v— and 
she was so pleased, she kissed me for making it so prettv. 
And she says she shall never give that dress away, but 
shall keep it always in remembrance of me.” 

Maude listened to this in amazement. Kate knew all. 
Yet she did not despise Grace for her lowly occupation. 


47 


A POOR RELATION. 

Nay, she thought all the more highly of her for it. They 
were better friends than ever. ' ' 

Grace smiled at her surprise, but said notfi.ing, and for 
some time the click, click of the sewing machine was the 
only sound to be heard in the little room. 

Suddenly Maude asked : “Does mother k;now?” • 
“Well, .no; I was rather afraid it would disturb her,” 
replied Grace. ■ “T don’t think she will be at all likely to 
see the journal. Kate and I thought it better not to tell 
her. We had a long talk about it. Mother knows I earn 
money in some way, but I have begged her to let me . 
keep my little secret. I rather think, from something 
she said, that she imagines I write poems. Just fancy I 
and I could not write a line. I always was a dunce.” 

“I think,” said Maude, rising and caressing her loving-, 
ly, “I think’you’re just a living poem, Grace.” 

And then she sat down again and began to sew. 


CHAPTER VI. 

' ■ AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 

“Right life for me is life that wends 
By lowly ways to lofty ends.” 

.. ,, —Coventry Patmore. 

It was one evening in early June, and the inmates of 
Ivy Cottage were assembled in their little dining-room, 
ready to sit down to supper as soon as Jane, their young 
maid, should announce that the meal was ready for 
them. During her lengthy preparations— for she was not 


48 


A POOR RELATION. 


one of the swiftest — tlieir appetites had ample time for 
improving. Grace would have helped, but she was ex- 
ceedingly busy with some needlework which she had 
promised to send away on the morrow. Grace’s inter- 
minable needlework was a mystery to her brothers. 

“Hush!” cried Mrs. Hartley, suddenly, to Jack and 
Maude, who were in the midst of a rather noisy but 
wholly good-natured dispute, “there is a ring at the bell. 
Jane, do you liear?” 

Jane withdrew to answer the bell, leaving, as was her 
frequent custom, the door open behind her. This time 
no one felt inclined to find fault about that. They all 
wanted to know who their visitor was. Visitors after 
nine o’clock were uncommonly rare. 

They heard Jane open the door. Then a man’s voice 
asked: “Is Mrs. Hartley in?” • 

“Yes, she’s in.” Then followed an interv^al of silence. 
Jane was evidently not inclined to ask tlie visitor in. He 
however, seemed desirous of entering without any fur- 
ther encouragement. 

“Is— is Mrs. Hartley engaged?” he inquired, at length. 

“No; she ain’t now, but she will be when supper’s 
ready. ’ ’ 

“Isn’t that just like Jane?” said Maude, in a low tone, 
to Jack, who was manfully trying to stifle a laugh. Gm*- 
ald looked furious; he was terribly ashamed of poor 
Jane. Mrs. Hartley’s face might have been taken for a 
martyr’s. 

“Oh, she’ll be engaged soon, eh?”, asked the stranger, 
in an evidently amused tone of voice. “Then I'd better 
come in now. Will you go and say Mr. John Hartley, 
from America, woukl like to see her?” 

“Your Uncle John, from America!” murmured Mi-s. 


A POOR RELATION. 


49 


Hartley, in a low, awestruck tone. “What shall we 
do?” 

Before any reply could be made to that question Jane 
had entered the room, closely followed by the visitor. 

“Mr. John Hartley, mum, wants — Oh, here he be!” 
and Jane stepped back. 

“Ah,! Maria,” said Mr.^Hartley, as he came forward 
holding out his hand, “how-d’y’-do? Hope I haven’t 
taken you by surprise?” 

“How are you, John?” replied Mrs. Hartley, faintly, 
just touching the proffered hand. “It is a little surprise, 
certainly, to sec you again after so many yearn*” 

“You’re quite sure it’s me? Why, of course you’re 
sure of that — fool I am,” and he liastily corrected him- 
self. “But I mean you’re quite sure I m John — John 
Hartley, who went off to America some twenty-three 
years ago?” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hartley answered, looking at him with 
mingled feelings. He had gone abroad when she had 
only been a short time married, but slie had seen kirn 
several times. He was a plain likeness, she had thought, 
of her husband, his younger brother. “You are still like 
poor Gerald,” slie said, wiping away a tear, for the sight 
of him had awakened memories of the beloved dead. 

In the meantime, all her children had been mentally 
discovering this resemblance to their father in the stran- 
ger. And they, too, were convinced that it must be in- 
deed their uncle who had so unexpectedly appeared in 
tlieir midst. Tvvm of them at least, however, were unde- 
cided as to whether his arrival was to be considered a 
matter for rejoicing. 

He v.^as a middle-aged, rather short and spare man, 
clean shaven and sliglitly gray. Although plain-looking 


50 


A POOR RELATION. 


he had a very pleasant expression of countenance, while 
the merry twinkle which now and then darted into his 
blue eyes— his one beauty — with the smile that lighted 
up his bronzed face, showed that he was not altogether 
devoid of good spirits, and perhaps a sense of humor. 

From his appearance, however, it was hard to tell 
whether his cheerfulness was justified by the state of his 
circumstances. His outward adorning was quite guilt- 
less of anything in the shape of jewelry, except a sim- 
ple silver chain attached to an equally simple silver 
watch. His clothes were neither new nor fashionably 
cut ; without being strictly shabby, they showed many 
signs of having been worn for a considerable length of 
time. His linen, so far as it was visible, seemed, if some- 
what frayed, at least spotlessly clean. On the whole, it 
was impossible to tell from his outer man whether Mr, 
John Hartley was a relation to be ashamed or proud of. 
As Gerald said to himself, he might be anything, million- 
aire, or next door to a pauper. Hence the young man’s 
attitude toward him was that of a calm, dispassionate 
inquirer after truth. 

“We were just sitting down to supper, John,” hazarded 
Mrs. Hartley, after she had introduced her children to 
him, “perhaps you will join us? But I am afraid we 
haven’t got very much to offer you to-night.” 

“Oh, pray, Maria, don’t make any excuses,” hastily 
replied her brother-in-law. “I see the roast beef of old 
England,” and he looked significantly at the table, “and 
a man who isn’t satisfied with that deserves to starve. 
And, out in the West, I’ve gone supperless to bed many 
a time— ay, and waited till supper-time for my breakfast, 
too.” 

Mrs. Hartley was extremely thankful that Jane was 


A POOR RELATION. 


51 


just leaving the room. Sucli confessions as these she 
feared would hardly tend to increase her respect for the 
family. Anti Jane was quicker w^ith her tongue than 
her hands. 

‘‘How did you find us here?” she asked, wishing to 
change the subject. 

“Oh, well, you know, I went to the old place. And I 
was very much taken aback to find it inhabited by other 
people. But I soon found plenty of folk who knew me 
and who saddened nte still more by telling me of poor 
Gerald’s deatli and the break down of your fortunes. 
Then I learned that you had come here, and I made up 
' my mind I would follow you and see if there was any- 
thing I could do?' 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hartley. She did not speak 
with enthusiasm, for she saw, or thought she saw, more 
and more plainly, that the proverbial ill luck still pur- 
sued the fortunes of her poor brother-in-law. 

At last, being anxious to find out, if not his past his- 
tory. at least his present circumstances, she remarked 
tentatively: “You haven’t told us yet what profession 
you — you entered in America.” She put it as politely as 
she could. 

“Profession, my dear Maria?” he replied, calmly, just 
as the little maid re-entered with the cheese. “Let me 
consider. Oh, yes. I think the first regular profession I 
practiced was that of cowboy. You know I could ride. 
But of course I did many odd jobs, so to speak, before I 
rose to that. ’ ’ He looked round. Maude was making 
some excuses to send Jaiie out of the room. He thought 
she had not very good manners to talk and interrupt him 
when he was speaking. But began again : “I got tired of 
that in about a year, and then settled down as a miner in 


52 


A POOR RELATION. 

Nevada: Ah I that was a rough time,” and he solemnly 
shook his head. 

‘‘And was mining profitable?” inquired Gerald, with 
a seemingly careless air. 

John Hartley cast a keen glance at him with his blue 
eyes; then he answered: ‘‘Well, it is a risky business; 
you may make money, or you may not. I’ve made 
money at mining — ay, and lost it, too. But I think I 
saved more money at stage-driving.” 

“Oh! that was another profession, then?” asked 
Maude, somewhat quizzically. 

“Yes, my dear, yes,” said her uncle, laughing, “and 
fiddling was another, and storekeeping another.” 

“You seem to have been Jack of all trades,” said Ger- 
ald, somewhat bruskly. He was disgusted at his uncle’s 
confession. For a Hartley to have been by turns cow- 
boy, miner, stage-driver, fiddler, etc., and all that, ap- 
parently, with the same want of success ! The pill was 
not even gilded. 

“Yes,” replied his uncle, not at all abashed, “Jack of 
all trades — and master of none, perhaps you might add.” 

“Well, I’m sure after so many changes you must be 
quite ready for a little rest,” said Grace, with a pleasant 
smile. She was prepared to welcome her uncle, what- 
ever his position might be ; for had he not a look of her 
dead father? For his sake she would love him ; she knew 
he had always been fond of poor Jack, as he used to call 
him on the rare occasions when he was named. And he 
had insisted upon calling his second son after him. 
“There has always been a Jack and a Gerald in our fam- 
ily,” he said; so, at least, her mother had once told her. 

“Rest, my dear? No, I can’t say that exactly; but I 
thought I should like to see the old country once again. 


A POOR RELATION. 


53 


And then, although I have many friends in America, 
blood is thicker than water. But I didn’t expect to find 
3'our father gone.” And here a suspicious dimness came 
into Uncle Jack’s e^'es. 

There was a slight pause, then lie asked abruptly, turn- 
ing to his elder nephew : “And now what are you doing, 
Gerald? You are the head of the family now.” 

Gerald remained silent. He resented the question and 
the manner in which it was put. Besides, Lord Granton 
had not replied to his application for help, and as he had 
expected him to write at once and offer him some suita- 
ble — i.e., gentlemanly and easily worked — appointment, 
he felt sore on the subject. 

“Poor Gerald, you know, John, was going into the 
army.” 

“Ail 1 there generally was one Hartley in the army,” 
replied Uncle Jack. 

“Yes. he was going to keep up the family tradition; 
but, of course, when his father died, and we found our- 
selves so badly off, that was out of the question.” 

“Yes; so Gerald went in for something else?” 

“Well, not exactly, but the poor boy is waiting for 
something to turn up. And he is a great comfort to us 
here,” and Mrs. Hartley looked fondly at her elder son. 

•‘Oil, yes. I see !” replied Uncle Jack, dryly. That was 
a perfectly safe remark to make. 

There was a short silence. Gerald looked uncomforta- 
ble. Lhicle Jack turned to the youth who had been calliMl 
after him. 

“And are ?/ou waiting for something to turn up, too?” 
he asked, with an inquiring look. 

“No. I’ve found something to do,” answered his 

nephew. 


54 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Yes,” said his mother, plaintively, “the poen* boy 
found some work connected with a newspaper at Rush- 
ton. It is not what I like, of course,” she went on, in a 
querulous tone, ‘ ‘and indeed none of our family ever had 
to do such a task before. But what was he to do?” 

Her brother-in-law felt rather amused at her indiscrim- 
inate pity for both her sons. One was a “p^-or boy be- 
cause he couldn’t find work, the other a “poor boy”— 
that is, one to be pitied — because he had found it. 

“So Jack is connected with the press, is he? Well, the 
press is a great power in America, at any rate, and I’ve 
no doubt it is here, too, if not to the same extent. But 
our people out there are great newspaper readers.” ^ 

“Well, I think he might have found something better 
to do,” said Gerald, sulkily, “than scribbling for a low 
Radical paper like the Rushton and PacJcUngton Adver- 
tiser." 

■‘Perhaps he is a Radical,” said his uncle, laughingly, 
with an inquiring glance at Jack. It was plain Radical- 
ism was no great sin in his eyes. 

“No, a reporter can’t afford to have any politics, un- 
cle,” said Jack; “he’s quite enough to do with reporting 
other people’s opinions. If ever I rise to be a sub-editor 
I shall have to express some political opinions.” 

“Oh, Jack, never mind politics now,” interrupted 
Grace, hastily, for she feared Gerald and he might have 
some disagreement on a subject generally fruitful in lit- 
tle scenes. For Jack was impulsive and enthusiastic in 
his profession of Liberal principles, while Gerald was a 
devout Tory. 

“I hope you have brought a bag, or something with 
you, Uncle John,” she added, turning to him. “We have 
a room quite ready.” 


55 


A POOR RELATION. 

“No, tliank you, luy dear. I have ordered a bed at 
the little inn. But if you could do with me for a few 
days, Maria — till — till I can look round, I certainly shan’t 
saj" no.” 

“Of course, John, we shall be very pleased to have you 
as long as you like,” said Mrs. Hartley, adding in a fret- 
ful tone, “but our accommodation is far different now 
from what it w.as when poor dear George was alive. ’ ’ 

“Oh, never mind the accommodation,” cried her 
brother-in-law, cheerily. “With a hearty welcome one 
can put uj) with anything. And I am sure you look most 
comfortable indeed; I shan’t have to rough it very 
much.” 

“Well, I am sure we can give you the hearty welcome, 
Uncle Jack,” said his younger nephew, “and I shall look 
forward to hearing some of your real ‘roughing experi- 
ences’ out in the West.” 

“Very well, my lad, then you shall hear them, only 
don’t let me lead you into wishing for a roving life. And 
now I’ll say good-night. And, mind, I shall be back for 
breakfast.” 


56 


A POOR RELATION. 


CHAPTER VII. 

NAILING IVY. 

“Will makes the man; who carves not time and chance 
To his own bidding, until seeming ill. 

Concur his cherished promise to fulfill, 

Has yet to learn that his inheritance 

Lies in himself.” —Lewis Morris. 

“Grace, I am surprised at you,” began Gerald, fu- 
riously, as sopn as the front door had closed on their 
uncle. “The very idea of saying we should be glad to 
welcome him here ! And didn’t you see how he jumped 
at the idea? Good heavens ! we may have him quartered 
on us for life. You really have no consideration.” 

“Well, I think it was the least we could do,” replied 
Grace, quietly. “Remember, he is father’s only brother. ” 
“You may be sure he won’t let us forgef that, ” said 
Maude, bitterly. “That’s the worst of having relations, 
especially poor ones. Because they happen to be related 
to you, they fancy they can take all sorts of liberties.” 

“My dear,” interposed her mother, cautiously, “you 
don’t know that he is poor ; he looks quite respectable.” 

“Looks respectable, mother! ' How can you say so?” 
retorted Gerald, angrily. “Why, those clothes must 
have been made years ago in the backwoods ! Did you 
ever see such clothes? And I should fancy the washer- 
woman must be afraid of washing his shirt and collars. 
Why, the edge of his collar was worn as thin as this 
knife.” 

“Yes, and the idea of telling us his low experiences be- 


A POOR RELATION. 


57 


fore Jane !” cried Maude. “Why, it will be all over tlie 
place! Let me see, what was he first, or last? Oh, a 
cowboy ! Well, it’s a pity we haven’t some cows! He 
might help us milking them.” 

“My dear Maude,” said Jack, laughing, “a cowboy 
doesn’t milk cows. Didn’t you see them at Buffalo Bill’s? 
They are quite swells. They drive cattle.” 

“Do they'?” returned Maude, calmly. “Well, then, in 
that case we may' find him setting up as a drover, like 
old Irish Bob. ” 

“I thought he had been a stage — stage-coach driver,” 
said Mrs. Hartley. 

“Oh, that was when he failed as a cowboy',” said Ger- 
ald. 

“Then I should propose we tell him that there is a va- 
cancy at the Golden Lion, in Rushton, for a bus-driver. 
I saw it in the paper this morning,” went on Maude, 
angrily'. 

“Well, I like him,” said Jack, stoutly', “and y'ou may' 
find he won’t want our help, or welcome, either ; y'ou 
seem to take it for granted that he is poor.” 

“My; dear Jack,” replied Gerald, with an air of superior 
wisdom, “did you (!!ver hear of rich relations taking the 
trouble to look up their poor friends? I never did — out 
of a novel, that is.” 

“If he is poor,” said Grace, “I think that is all the 
more reason why' we should be kind to him. Rich people 
can always take care of themselves, and even buy kind- 
ness. or sometliing very like it.” 

“Bravo, Grace !” cried Jack, “stick up for Uncle Jack, 
be lie rich or poor.” 

“Oh. well, if y'ou like to have your poor relations 
sponging on you for goodness knows how long, I don’t. 


58 


A POOR RELATION. 


And I shall soon let him know my opinion !” said Gerald, 
crossly. 

Jack was going to retort that Uncle Jack wouldn’t be 
the only one that sponged on his relations, but an appeal- 
ing look from Grace, who was afraid he might say some- 
thing unpleasant for Gerald’s ears, made him keep si- 
lence. He was not sorry, on glancing at his watch, to 
find it was his usual time for retiring. His plan was to 
act upon the proverb, “Early to bed and early to rise, ” 
for he liked to feel fresh for his day’s work at Rushton. 

“I am sorry, for Jack’s sake, that uncle has found us 
out,” said Gerald, as soon as his brother had disappeared ; 
“he will be putting all kinds of low ideas into the boy’s 
head” — Gerald was only twenty-five himself — “and, 
goodness knows, he hasn’t much sense of dignity as it is.” 

“Gerald, my love,” murmured his mother, “you are a 
little hard on your brother. I really don’t know what 
we should do if he gave up his work on the paper.” 

“Oh! I dm’t mean that,” replied Gerald, hastily; 
“beggars can’t always be choosers, and I suppose he 
likes the work. There’s no accounting for tastes. But 
I’m afraid he may strengthen Jack’^ low Radical opin-' 
ions. In America they seem to have no respect for rank 
or birth ; one man is as good as another, that’s their idea. 
And Jack doesn’t want any encouragement in that way.” 

“No; I’m afraid he has little of the Hartley spirit,” 
sighed his mother. “He seems to care very little for be- 
longing to one of the oldest families in England— a 
younger branch, of course.” 

“Well, I wish we had a little more of the Hartley 
money,” cried Maude. “They say Lord Granton is sim- 
ply rolling in it. Suppose we pay him a surprise visit?” 


A POOR RELATION. 


59 


“Well. I’ve no doubt Lord Granton would remember 
that we are Hartleys, too,” replied Gerald, loftily. 

“And isn’t poor Uncle Jack a Hartley, also, Gerald?” 
asked Maude, mischievously. 

“Only in name,” retorted Gerald. 

“Ah! I suppose you mean he’s like a worn sovereign. 
You call it a sovereign, although it has lost all trace of 
the Queen’s head, or of St. George and the dragon. Poor, 
poor, degenerate Uncle Jack ! How he is to be pitied ! 
But, mark my words, I shall try to bring him to a sense 
of his real position. Come along. Grade, let’s go and 
dream that we are trying to reform our poor uncle.” 

It was abundantly evident that whether Uncle Jack 
were satisfied with his reception by his relations or not, 
he did not spend the night in meditation upon their treat- 
ment of him, for the next morning he was up with the 
lark and on his way to their dwelling by seven o’clock, 

xVrrived there, his soul was vexed within him. The 
house was (juite covered with i\'y and other creeping 
plants, but a recent gale of wind had loosened a huge 
branch of ivy, and it liung trailing down to the ground 
in helpless, piteous confusion. Gerald had seen its dis- 
tress ; nay, more, had been implored by Maude to nail it 
up. But he objected to spoil, or indeed soil, his delicate 
fingers with such plebeian work. Perhaps the truth was 
lie knew he would be seen while doing it by people pass- 
ing along the road. Uncle Jack’s spirit was up in arms. 
He was a most tidy, orderly man, and, above all, one who 
delighted in using his hands. 

Prowling round the garden, he espied a ladder ; then, 
entering the house, where only the faithful Jane was up. 
he asked lier for a hammer and some nails, which she 


60 


A POOR RELATION. 


quickly found for him. With these in his hands he sal- 
lied forth triumphant. 

In another moment the ladder was placed against the 
wall, the trailing branch slowly hauled up to the spot 
left so long to deplore its absence, and the hammer busy 
among the nails. The natural result was a noise. It 
awoke Gerald and Maude. The former, in a rage, darted 
out of bed and opened the window, with the hope that 
he might discover and put to an end the cause of such an 
unwonted din. 

Horror of horrors! Uncle Jack, in his shirt-sleeves, 
fully exposed to the gaze of every passer-by, busily en- 
gaged in wrestling with the ivy I In a rage, Gerald 
banged the window to, and returned to bed to brood over 
the disgrace which his uncle’s arrival would inevitably 
bring upon them. 

Maude, more leisurely, made her appearance at her 
window. 

“Uncle Jack, what are you doing?” she cried, in 
amazement. “Have you been sleeping in the summer- 
house? Why, it’s hardly morning yet I” 

“My dear, excuse me; it’s past seven. I slept in the 
inn ; most comfortably, too. And I am earning my 
breakfast. Tliere, all your questions are answered.” 

“Well, it is good of you. That ivy has been quite an 
eye-sore to me ; and I’m sure Grace was vexed about it, 
too. Jack hasn’t had time to see to it, and Gerald— oh, 
well, Gerald came and looked at it. Perhaps he thought 
it was an improvement, a kind of ‘weeping ivy,’ you 
know, so he let it alone.” 

“Humph !” said Uncle Jack, and went on hammering 
noisily. 

“How sweet the flowers smell. Uncle Jack !” cried the 


A POOR RELATION. 


61 


girl, when he paused to search for a nail that had slipped 
out of his fingers — for the gentle breeze wafted the odors 
from the little garden into her room. “I really think I 
will get up and come and join you. I shall get an appe- 
tite for breakfast, at least, even if I don’t earn it, like 
you.” 

“I’m afraid you don’t often get an appetite by early 
rising,” said her uncle, shaking his head in mock serious- 
ness. 

“No, I don’t now ; but I used to do so, I assure you. I 
had to give up being a busy bee, for I used to feel so 
awfully good at the thought that I was up while others 
were still sleeping that I got quite conceited, and that is 
very bad for one, isn’t it? So I gradually fell back into 
the ways of the sluggard. But you will see me down in 
a very few minutes.” 

It maybe thought that Maude’s treatment of her uncle, 
so different from her coldness of the evening before, was 
the sign of a capricious, not to say unstable, mind. The 
truth is, Maude was naturally amiable, warm-hearted 
and cheerful, and inclined to look at the bright side of 
things. But her loyalty to Gerald, who until lately had 
always been her hero, often warped her judgment and 
tended to keep the better side of her character in the 
background. To agree with him and support his opinions 
meant doing injustice to herself. Away from him, her 
natural temperament had fuller scope in which to display 
itself, and she could give it full play without the risk of 
going contrary to his views or hurting his feelings. And 
the fact that he had faults — serious ones, which none saw 
plainer than herself — often made her, in her vexation, 
utter hasty, angry words, which, later on, she deeply re- 
gretted. That morning she was herself, and at her best. 


62 


A POOR RELATION, 


Uncle Jack, wanderer, ex-cowboy, miner, stage-driver, 
presumably poor, perliaps a ne’er-do-well, one certainly 
who was lacking in dignity and respect for the family 
name, was still her dead father’s brother. As such her 
heart warmed toward him. 

Meantime the knocking continued. Gerald found it 
impossible to compose himself to sleep. Once more he 
jumped out of bed and rushed to Jack’s room. Jack, by- 
the-by, slept with his window open. 

“Jack,” cried Gerald, “do you hear that confounded 
row?” 

“Yes, and jolly glad to hear it, too. It woke me up, 
and I liad overslept myself. ’ ’ 

“And do you know what it is?” asked Gerald, in angry 
tones. 

“No, can’t say I do exactly. Perhaps Jane is chopping- 
sticks for yesterday’s fire; she generally is a day late. 
I’ve had no breakfast here for several mornings. Or per- 
haps the swallows are knocking their nests together, poor 
beggars. Or perhaps it’s the postman, who can’t make 
Jane hear. Or perhaps — ” 

“Can’t you be serious for a moment, Jack?” cried 
Gerald; “and listen to me. Round the corner there is 
our precious uncle, in his shirt-sleeves, too ! perched on 
a ladder and fastening up the ivy. That’s pretty cool, 
I think ; it seems he has quite taken possession of us.” 

“In his shirt-sleeves, eh?” returned Jack, coolly. 
“Well, so long as they are clean I don’t suppose it mat- 
ters much.” 

For a moment Gerald was speechless with rage. Fi- 
nally he was able to gasp out ; “No wonder that you take 
to your low-lived backwoods relation, for your tastes and 
ideas seem as low as his. But let me tell you this. I won’t 


A POOR RELATION. 


63 ' 


have you encouraging him to make this house the place 
for showing off his disreputable practices !” 

“My dear Gerald,” replied his brother, “you seem to 
forget the ‘mater’ has some voice in the matter. It strikes 
me she has something to do with the house and its ar- 
rangements.” Since he had been earning his own living 
and mixing with men older than himself Jack had per- 
haps unconsciously acquired a much more manly tone. ' 
He never had been backward, however, in maintaining 
his own opinions, as Gerald knew very well. 

“You seem to forget,” sneered Gerald, “that as the 
head of the house I, too, have something to say in the 
matter. ’ ’ 

“If you are the head of the house, I think you might 
find something to do to keep it going,” retorted Jack, 
significantly, stung beyond endurance at his brother’s 
manner. 

Gerald flung himself out of the room. The shaft had 
found its mark. 

A letter he received, just then, from a tobacconist at 
Rushton, demanding payment of an overdue account, 
did not tend to increase his cheerfulness, and he went 
down to breakfast in a villainous temper, which he was 
not too careful to conceal. 

But Uncle Jack was irrepressible. He had heard the 
conversation between the brothers, for, just as Gerald 
entered Jack’s room, he was placing his ladder under- 
neath that window, in order to fix some trailing ivy on 
that side of the house. But his smile was as placid and 
his manner just as unruffled as if he had been listening 
to the highest eulogiums on himself and his doings. There 
was not the faintest tinge of resentment in the tone in 
which he spoke to Gerald. If one of the arts of civiliza- 


64 


A POOR RELATION. 


tion be that of concealing one’s feelings and controlling 
one’s temper, it was plain the “poor” uncle had found 
some refining influences even in the wilds of the far 
West, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A TALK ABOUT EU;-TACE IXGHAM. 

“Work? Am I not at work from morn till night? 

. . Do I not twirl from left to right 
For conscience sake? Is that no work?” 

— J. R. Lowell. An Oriental Apologue. 

A FORTNIGHT had passed, and Uncle Jack was still at 
Marburn. Although the Ingham Arms was his head- 
quarters, inasmuch that he always slej^t and had a good 
many of his meals there, yet he managed to spend a fair 
amount of his time, off and on, at Ivy Cottage, much to 
Gerald’s disgust. 

“I wonder how much longer this is to go on?” he 
grumbled, at times, when liis uncle had paid them a 
longer visit than usual. “It’s a blessing we have not got 
any more poor relations knocking about the world. In 
that case it would be better to take an inn right out. The 
prospect of a weekly bill might frighten them away after 
a short visit — an extremely short visit. As it is we get 
the worry of entertaining people without even the inn- 
keeper’s profits. ” 

“My dear Gerald, how can you talk so?” exi)ostulated 
his mother, plaintively. “I am sure your poor uncle is 
welcome to what little we can offer him.” 


A POOR RELATION. 


65 


That s just what he thinks,” remarked Maude, slyly^. 
“Isn’t that what you mean, Gerald?” 

“I don’t imagine he thinks wi?/ welcome is a very hearty 
one,” replied Gerald, grimly. “But some people never 
will take a hint.” 

“That may depend upon the person who gives it,” re- 
torted Maude. “No doubt Uncle Jack thinks your hints 
may very safely and properly be ignored.” 

“I did not think you would take his part,” said Gerald, 
in injured tones, looking angrily at his sister. 

“One should always take the part of the weak,” re- 
plied she, sententiously. “Uncle Jack is getting old, a 
stranger in England, friendless, almost homeless, and 
poor— presumably so, that is ; I judge by his appearance 
and — and my knowledge of human nature.” 

“Your knowledge of human nature ! Oh, Maude, you 
at twenty talking so !” cried Grace, merrily. 

“Yes, moi qui vous parle, twenty, untraveled, un- 
learned, un-everything you like ; I grant all that. But 
mark this, I have acquired a habit of observation, and 
you shall have one proof of it. I have noticed that wdien 
a man has risen from poverty to the greatness of a sub- 
stantial income he takes particular care to draw your 
attention to that — that, well, solid fact. Do you, for im 
stance, Gerald, complain of your want of a good open- 
ing, your lack of a chance for getting on, then listen to 
him : ‘You complain of having no opportunities? Let me 
tell you, young sir, a strong man makes them I Look at 
me ; I began life without two sixpences to rub together, 
without friends, with little education’ — By-the-by, 
however, I may state that this last is quite an unneces- 
sary piece of information.” 


66 


A POOR RELATION. 


* “Blake him say, ‘without manners,’ too,” suggested 
Ge)’al<L 

“Don’t interrupt ; let me finish, good folks. ‘And now 
look at me, young man. Without boasting I may" say 
that the Rothschilds would give me unlimited credit, un- 
limited credit. And I am proud, sir, of 'being the achitect 
of my own fortunes.’ ’’ 

“But I don’t think your Uncle Jack ever hinted that he 
had been an architect,” said Blrs. Hartley, simph'. She 
had, as was often the case, failed to catch the meaning of 
Blaude’s words. Indeed, she was a most matter-of-fact 
l)erson. 

“No, mother, that’s the Avorst of it ; that’s exactly what 
I’A'e been endeavoring to make clear. It is poor Uncle 
Jack’s misfortune that by ill luck he has never risen to 
that height.” 

“Well, there is, after all, some consolation for me, 
then, in his being poor. I get plenty of good advice as 
it is. But uncle on the top of the ladder, raised by his 
own exertions, too, would be absolutely insupportable,” 
cried Gerald, as he left the room. 

Not many days after that conversation Uncle Jack 
gave his relations at Ivy Cottage a little definite infor- 
mation as to his plans for the immediate future. 

As it happened all were present Avhen the communica- 
tion was made. The elder Hartley l\ad invited liimself 
to supper. 

“Do you know, Blaria,” he remarked. “I’A"e grown 
fond of this neighborhood, and I really think I should 
like to settle down here, for a time at least. And then, 
of course, I should be near ymu.” 

Gerald looked as if he thought their uncle’s proximity 


A POOR RELATION. 


67 


to Ivy Cottage would be anything but an unmixed bless- 
ing. 

“If you don’t intend to build,” he said, “I’m afraid 
you will have to settle a little further off. Tliere isn’t a 
decent house to let in the place.” 

“Excuse me, Gerald. The very house I should like will 
be vacant shortly — Mrs. Jones’s cottage.” 

“Oh ! is she going? Well, I don’t call that much of a 
place,” replied Gerald, contemptuously. 

“Don’t you, Gerald?” said his uncle, in unruffled tones. 
“Well, I must admit it isn’t exactly a palace. But if it 
suits me, and my means — ” 

“Take it by all means,” cried Jack, heartily. “And 
I’m very glad you are going to live near us,” he added, 
quite disregarding the furious look Gerald cast at him. 

“I suppose I shall have to write to Eustace Ingham,” 
continued his uncle; “it seems he acts as his father’s 
agent. So old Sawkins informed me, and he seems to be 
well versed in the details of Marburn life.” 

“I tliink you are pretty well up in all that goes on 
here,” said Jack. “You seem to know everybody al- 
ready.” 

“Yes, indeed. You are quite an American,” said 
Maude, with a smile. “Some travelers say our cousins 
are very inquisitive.” 

“My dear,” answered Uncle Jack, gravely, “you know 
what Pope says— 

“ ‘The proper study of mankind is man.’ 

and, to go a little further back, a great Latin poet 
proudly boasted that he took an interest in everything 
that concerned his fellow-creatures. At present the fel- 


68 


A POOR RELATION. 


low-creatures nearest to. me are tlie inhabitants of I\Iar- 
biirn; naturally, therefore, for the present, I take the 
greatest interest in them. ’ ’ 

“And that's considerably more than tlie squire does,” 
observed Maude, dryly. “In liis eyes the tenants are 
merely so many machines for grinding out rent every 
half-year.” 

“And yet he does not seem much tlie richer, in spite of 
all the grinding, according to Mrs. Bent.” 

“Ah ! she ought to know,” said Mrs. Hartley, “for she 
told me she had lived at the Hall for twenty years. But 
what cause did she give for the poor squire’s lack of 
means?” 

“Oh, many — race-horses, principally. What a fool he 
must be not to giv'e them up !” 

“My dear uncle,” said Maude, gravely, “it is plmn you 
are quite a stranger to English ideas, and the power of 
sentiment and tradition. Squire Ingham is eminently 
conservative, even in his failings. For generations the 
Inghams have bred, kept and run race-horses ^ in fact, 
done everything with them but make money. Squire 
Ingham keeps up the traditions of the house. Long ago 
the Inghams began to ruin themselves by thus support- 
ing the family dignity. Year by year the mortgages 
have been growing heavier ; and now I don’t suppose 
that the squire really owns an acre of the old property. 
Fortunately, Mrs. Ingham’s land was settled on herself 
and heirs. Luckily, he can’t touch that.” 

“I must say, Maude,” interposed her uncle, “you have 
a very pretty talent for discussing the failings of your 
friends. ’ ’ 

“Friends, uncle? Squire Ingham is no friend of mine, 
for at times he is barely civil to me,” and the girl’s lip 


A POOR RELATION. 


69 


quivered. But, quickly recovering herself, she went on : 
“And if he were a friend that were all the more reason 
why I should discuss his failings, because it seems to me 
that the failings of our friends are just those left open to 
honest discussion. To criticise harshly the faults of your 
enemies might seem uncharitable. And some people 
might put it down to ‘envy, hatred and malice. ’ No, no^ 
leave me at least my friends.” 

“And what of your relations?” said Uncle Jack, look- 
ing at her with an amused air. 

“Relations?” returned she, with a smile; “well, in 
their case you have a further privilege. You may dis- 
cuss their failings before ^ their very face — unless, of 
course, they are extremely rich and influential.” 

“Then I may consider myself quite protected from 
your attacks?” said he, looking keenly at her. 

“Oh, at present, in your case, uncle, a little discretion 
might not be out of place,” she retorted, with a playful 
bow. 

“Maude, my love, you shouldn’t be so plain-spoken,’* 
murmured Mrs. Hartley. “Your uncle will be hurt.” 

“Oh, not at all, Maria!” replied Uncle Jack, heartily. 
“I can stand a little joke, even against myself.” He had 
found out by this time that his sister-in-law often did not 
understand jesting. “Now, will some one tell me what 
I am to do about this cottage,” he went on, abruptly 
changing the subject. 

“I think you should write to young Mr. Ingham, or 
call upon him,” answered Grace, thinking he looked at 
her. 

“Oh! Eustace Ingham,” said he, “there’s another idle 
loafer for you !” and he shook his head and cast a curi- 
ous glance at Maude. 


70 


A FOOK RELATION. 


The girl colored slightly as she caught his look. Her 
first impulse was to burst out into an enthusiastic defense 
of the young man, but fear of betraying too mucli 
warmth prudently restrained her, so she contented her- 
self with saying: “Indeed, uncle, you don’t know all the 
inner life of Marburn yet, or you would not style young 
Mr. Ingham an idle loafer.” 

“Of course, my dear, I should be sorry to do any one 
an injustice,” Uncle Jack hastened to reply, not being 
unobservant of her tell-tale blush. 

Grace took up the cudgels stoutly in defense of Ing- 
ham. 

“Eustace Ingham is a brave, unselfish man,” she said, 
decisively. “For the sake of others he has thrown away 
most excellent prospects. He was a barrister, just begin- 
ning to make his way, when old Mr. Brown, the agent of 
the property, died. The squire said he wouldn’t appoint 
another, as he couldn’t afford it, and so took the whole 
management of the property into his own hands. He 
hates business matters, and, in fact, trouble of any kind, 
except in the w'ay of sport, so the result was a most 
dreadful muddle. The tenants could not get anything 
done properly, and the sub-agent, who received the rents, 
would listen to no complaints. More than that, the 
money that should have been spent in paying the interest 
on the mortgages was squandered elsewhere. Then, at 
his mother’s entreaties, Eustace stepped forward, gave 
up Ids profession, and came home and settled down as 
his father’s agent.” 

“Yes, and a jolly, thankless task it is,” cried Jack, “to 
stand between the squire and his tenants ! Wlien the in- 
terest on the mortgages has been paid there isn’t mucli 
left for spending on the property in the way of improve- 


A POOR RELATION. 


71 


ments. I bet Eustace has spent nearly all his savings in 
trying to patch up things.” 

“Is that so?” asked Uncle Jack, in a tone of great in- 
terest. “Then I’m sorry I did the young man an injustice. 
But how do they manage to live, then? Practically, they 
seem to get nothing from the property.” 

“Well, I suppose they live on Mrs. Ingham’s money,” 
replied Grace; “in fact, there is nothing else for them.” 

“Well, I’m glad I’ve heard the truth about the young 
man,” and once more he looked at Maude. “I like a 
man who isn’t afraid to face difficulties boldly, especially 
when he does so for the sake of others,” and then he 
looked across at Gerald, who colored a little at this mark 
of attention. 

He had one sign of grace left, he could still blush. 

The next day the elder Hartley called upon Eustace 
Ingham, and was not at all disappointed with him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

^ UNCLE jack’s cottage. . 

“For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 

So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 

. ... Neither art thou the worse 

For this poor furniture and mean array.” 

—Shakespeare. 

Uncle Jack had no difficulty in securing the cottage 
lately occupied by Mrs. Jones. In fact, Eustace Ingham 


72 


A POOK RELATION. 


was only too glad to be. able to procure a presumably 
solvent tenant. The late occupant of the cottage hardly 
came under that category. And doubtless the young”’ 
man had an additional satisfaction in being able to oblige 
a relation of Maude's. 

Eustace had admired Maude from the ver.y first mo- 
ment of their mutual acquaintance. As we have seen, 
she was a very prettj' girl, and beauty in woman always 
has attractions for a healthy, well-regulated masculine 
mind. She was sprightly in humor, too, and gentle in 
disposition, with strongly developed powers of loving, 
and, also, generous and unselfish. All this he liad dis- 
covered as time went on, and it was no wonder that his. 
admiration grew stronger and eventually trespassed into 
the domain of liking. Admiration and liking are first 
cousins to love — that soon followed in the warm, manly 
heart of Eustace Ingham. 

So Uncle Jack obtained the promise of Willow Cottage. 
It was well for old Betty Jones’s moral well-being that 
she had removed far away from Marbiirn. Otherwise, 
on seeing how the incoming tenant was treated, she would 
have felt tempted to indulge in envy and uncharitable- 
ness. 

“New paper 1“ she would have cried; “fresh paint, 
gravel on the garding- walk, a new ’andle to the pump, 
bells ! And, actilly, a few lovely shrubs from the ’All ! 
Well, I declare ! and all for a grubby old bachelor 1“ 

No, Betty, not exactly ; not quite for his sake. • You 
forget the lovely young niece in the background. Per- 
haps in the days gone by, long before the wrinkles gath- 
ered on your snowy brow, or the roses had faded from 
your cheeks. , wliile your eyes put the diamonds to shame 
with their sparkle, w hen your waist was slender and in- 


A POOR RELATION, 


75 

viting, your step light and springy — perhaps for your 
sake some hard-hearted landlord may have shown un- 
usual kindness, even to a grubby old bachelor uncle. But 
you have had your day ; be thankful ; treasure up the 
memories of the past and give way to the young, Be_ 
sides, Betty, you were always readier with your com- 
plaints than your rent ; don’t forget that. 

Yes, Eustace thoroughly “did up,” as the expression 
is, Willow Cottage for his new tenant. It was not a par- 
ticularly picturesque little house, and the willows had 
long since disappeared from the front of it — perhaps 
Betty had found fuel scarce, at times. But certainly one 
charm it still possessed, in a most lovely old-fashioned 
back garden, most comfortably shut in from rough winds 
and prying eyes — just the place for lovers to wander in, 
hand in hand, exchanging mutual vows of love and trust, 
or whispering sweet confidences of early sweethearting 
days. 

It may have been that when Eustace entered this gar- 
den, in the early days of Uncle Jack’s tenancy, he pict- 
ured himself and Maude treading together its tender 
green sward, or sitting side by side on the old rustic seat, 
just within the shadow of the wide-spreading beech tree, 
tlie sole survivor in that neighborhood of its race. But 
then, young men will indulge in day-dreams when fair 
maidens occupy their thoughts. 

Uncle Jack furnished his house very plainly indeed — 
Gerald said, “in the most beggarly fashion.” That may, 
however, have been from sheer prejudice against his 
uncle. Had he lavished much money on his furniture- 
supposing, indeed, he had the means — doubtless Gerald 
would have considered this a most selfish proceeding on 
his uncle’s part, considering the scarcity of money at 


74 


A POOR RELATION. 


Ivy Cottage. Some people never will be pleased. He 
was, moreover, excessively disgusted at his uncle’s set- 
tling down so near to them. His presence seemed an 
ever-present blot on the dignity of the family escutcheon. 
And, then, his past life I And his habit of talking of it, 
for he rather gloried in all his experiences,, which he 
was fond of detailing to any willing listener. Besides, 
Gerald disliked him f:_’ the same reason that Ahab dis- 
liked the prophet Micaiah — “He doth prophesy evil con- 
cerning me, and not good.” Uncle Jack seemed to Ger- 
ald too much like an incarnate conscience, ever pointing 
out to him the path of duty. 

“Why do you encourage him to live here?” he asked 
Maude, one day, as she was setting off to superintend 
some of the arrangements at Willow Cottage. Why 
should you take the trouble to engage a servant for him? 
Perhaps you may be held responsible for her wages.” 

“My dear Gerald, don’t talk nonsense!” replied Maude. 
“Encourage him to stay, indeed ! Haven’t you found 
out yet how obstinate he is when once his mind is made 
up to do a thing? It seems to me that nothing will move 
him then. Besides, you must remember he is a Hartley, 
after all, and I am not going to appear as if I were 
ashamed of him. If we keep ^aloof people will naturally 
imagine we are, and for some good reason, too. And, 
besides,” she went on, in her usually inconsistent and il- 
logical but winning manner, “I am too proud to be al- 
ways asking myself what other people think or say about 
what I am doing. That’s the height of snobbishness, 
I think. If you think a thing’s right, do it, and never 
mind what people say. That’s my motto — there 1” 

“Why, you are as bad as uncle,” grumbled Gerald, 
stung by his sister’s remarks. Vf'' ' ' 


A POOR RELATION. 


75 


“Am I, Gerald? Well, forgive me if I am a bit cross 
this morning. I know my tongue is an unruly member, 
sometimes.” 

“Yes, that’s true,” said Gerald, ungraciously, “but 
you are so inconsistent, Maude. You were awfully an- 
noyed at first when the old chap came.” 

“Well, perhaps I was,” replied Maude, “and I admit 
that I rather felt annoyed at his staying, if the confession 
of that will do you any good. But when you can’t alter 
things the next best course is to endure them with the 
best possible grace. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER X. 

CROSSLAND MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

“This weak impress of love is as a figure 
Trenched in ice ; which with an hour’s heat 
Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form.” 

—Shakespeare. 

William Holmes, one of Crossland’s cousins, occupied 
the position of cashier in Glennie’s Bank, Lombard Street, 
London. At very rare intervals he came down to Mar- 
burn to spend a day or two with Frank Crossland. One 
of these rare and flying visits took place some few 
months after the elder Hartley had taken possession of 
Willow Cottage. ^ 

On the first evening after his arrival he went with 
Frank for a stroll round his estate. On their way home 
they met Maude Hartley, who was taking a short cut 
across the fields to the vicarage. 


76 


A POOR RELATION. 


“What a lovely girl !” cried Holmes, rapturously, when 
she had passed on out of hearing. “You mow her, too, 

I see.” 

“Yes, I know her very well,” answered Crossland, 
with the faintest blush on his cheeks, which by no means 
escaped the observant eye of his cousin. 

“Ah ! a blush, I see. Well, it is not only becoming to 
your face, old man, but creditable to your feelings ; for 
I was thinking you must have a heart of stone to know 
the young lady and not fall in love with her. One can 
see she is a lady.” 

“Oh, she is that, most decidedly; related to Lord 
Granton, you know. His family name is Hartley. She 
is a Miss Hartley.” 

“Ah, ah! birth and beauty combined, I see. An ad- 
ditional reason for the blush.” 

“My dear Willy, don’t talk nonsense! Birth and 
beauty are all very well, but you know they are rather 
unsubstantial things to marry on, and it has been a heavy 
drain on the old place paying my father’s debts. I must 
look out for somebody with a decent dowry, as a natural 
consequence.” 

“I may conclude, then, that this young lady has not 
been dowered with everything by Fortune?” 

“No, indeed; so far as I am concerned, the most nec- 
essary gift is wanting. Miss Hartley is as poor as the 
proverbial church mouse.^’ 

“Sorry for her, and for you. Has she relations here?” 

“Yes, she is living with her mothe^’, and, besides her, 
there are two brothers and a sister. The elder brother, 
by the way, is a great lazy lout, who won’t work, but 
isn’t ashamed to beg, sponges on his mother, too, who 
has a very slender income, and borrows of his friends.” 


A POOR relation. 


•>. y 

t I 


“'iou among the number, I suppose?” 

“Well, just as far as I would let him go. But I had to 
tell him straight out I was practically a poor man my- 
self.” 

“You gave him quite a ‘straight tip, ’ then. And has 
he settled down to the enjoyment of life as a confirmed 
loafer?” 

“No, not at all. Like Mr. Micawber, he’s waiting for 
something to turn up— in all probability from his noble 
cousin. Lord Granton. But this something is long on 
the way. ’ ’ 

“I see; that hardly improves the young lady’s pros- 
pects. One vrould rather shrink from having to say : ‘I 
take thee and thy brother as well.’ ” 

“Yes, rather. But, mind you, the girls and the younger 
brother are made of quite different stuff. All the false 

pride and idleness of the family is concentrated in 

* 

Gerald.” 

“Like your river Lent. Not much extent of surface 
but deep. ’ ’ 

“Oh, deep enough. But now I think we may let Mr. 
Gerald Hartley drop. As a subject for a lengthened dis- 
course, except to ' point a moral,’ I don’t find him par- 
ticularly fascinating.” 

Not even to his cousin would Crossland admit how 
deeply he had fallen in love with Maude Hartley ; that 
he was, as he expressed it, ‘hard hit,’ and yet that he 
was obliged to stand by and allow another to woo her 
without let or hindrance from himself. That was indeed 
gall and wormwood to the young man. To have a rival, 
and yet be obliged to keep in the background ! He had 
quite sufficient self-esteem to believe that, had it been 
otlierwise. his wooing would not have been in vain. And 


78 


A POOR RELATION. 


to be under thirty, handsome, sound in mind and limb, 
well educated, of good birth — surely these are no bad cre- 
dentials wherewith to go a-wooing with a fair chance of 
success ! Such, at least, was Crossland’s opinion. But, 
oh, the pity of it ! To have to allow such advantages to 
remain idle, unprofited by and useless ! 

But suddenly the future grew brighter. The obsta- 
cles in Crossland’s path were gone, vanished ; nay, had 
he but known it, they had never existed except in his 
own imagination. 

It was his cousin. Holmes, who opened his eyes to the 
truth. And the very day, too, after their meeting with 
Maude. Holmes had been for a constitutional. 

“I didn’t know you had one of my customers, or cli- 
ents, or patrons rusticating in Marburn, ” he remarked, 
on his return. 

“Nor did I,” replied Crossland ; “not a very profitable 
one, I should fancy, unless it be one of the big tenant- 
farmers,” he added, dryly. “I suppose they manage to 
save money, in spite of their dreadful complaints of hard 
times. The landowners in the neigliborhood won’t give 
you much trouble with their accounts. You don’t mean 
Squire Ingham?” 

“No, I mean a man that lives at Willow Cottage, 
where old Betty Jones used to live. Hartley his name is. ” 

“Hartley!” echoed Crossland. “Uncle Jack, the 
Anglo-American? I didn’t know your people had taken 
to money-lending pure and simple— strictly private and 
confidential, don’t you know; no connection with so- 
called banks, etc. ; you know the style of advertisem.ent. ” 

“My dear Frank, what are you talking about? I say 
this Hartley is one of our customers. Keeps an account, 
draws his money out, not ours. Do you twig now?” 


A POOR RELATION. 


79 


“Does he?” replied Crossland, listlessly, not feeling 
interested in the subject. “I suppose he has saved a few 
hundreds out in America. ’ ' 

“A few hundreds?” cried Holmes, contemptuously. 
“Why, man, do you know what the first drafts he paid 
in came to?” 

“Never was good at riddles. Give it up,” drawled 
Crossland. 

“Well, let me tell you, Mr. Frank,” cried Holmes, 
pitpied at his cousin’s real or pretended indifference, “let 
me tell you this, they came to eighty thousand pounds !” 

“What!” almost screamed Crossland, springing up 
from his chair in excitement, “eighty thousand pounds 1” 

“Yes, sir, eighty thousand pounds ; only I hardly see, at 
present, why you should so suddenly grow excited at the 
mention of the sum. You don’t happen to be a relation 
of his. ” 

“No, but shall I tell you who is?” 

“All right; fire away,” said Holmes. 

“Well, then, the very girl we met yesterday, Maude 
Hartley ; she’s one of his nieces.” 

“Oh, thrice adorable Maude! Oh, enviable niece!” 
softly murmured Holmes. “Presuming,” he added, 
“that the man is a bachelor.” 

“So he has given us all to suppose, and I have no rea- 
son to doubt his word. But I wonder what reason he 
has for posing as ‘the poor relation’?” 

“My dear Frank, the reason is plain enough. In fact, 
you’ve heard it scores of times in the old childish days. I 
did, at any rate. ‘By the life of Pharaoh, surely ye are 
spies.’ ‘ To see the nakedness of the land are ye come.’ ” 

“Well, that’s very likely,” answered Crossland, after 
a moment’s reflection. “So much the worse, I should 


80 


A POOR RELATION. 


say, for Master Gerald ; as a prospective heir he doesn’t 
seem to be in it. I wouldn’t give twopence for his 
chance of benefiting by the old man’s will. There’s 
some sense, after all, in finding out privately the real 
character of your relations, when you’ve got anything 
to leave them.” 

“Quite so,” replied Holmes, sententiously, “and in 
this case we can only say, so much the better for the 
others. Go in and win the fair Maude, my boy. Surely 
she must have crept into the heart of the rich old uncle. 
Go in and win her, my boy,” he repeated, slapping his 
cousin on the shoulder. 

“Yes, I mean to try now,” said Crossland, “duty and 
inclination will go hand in hand. And your coming 
down here now, old chap, has turned out trumps and no 
mistake. All the same, don’t get into a wax when J say 
I’m jolly glad you’re going early to-morrow morning.” 

“What an ungrateful beggar you are'! This is a splen- 
did return for the wrinkle I’ve given you !” 

“Wrinkle! Ah! that’s just the point. If the uncle 
sees you he may imagine, when I come forward, that 
you have not been quite so reticent about banking mat- 
ters as you ought to have been. And, in his eyes, I 
should at once lose my character as a perfectly disin- 
terested wooer. No, no, Willy, we must not let him see 
you.” 

“That’s your game, is it, Frank? Oh, then I’ll forgive 
your apparent want of gratitude and hospitality. But I 
must say you are rather a cool hand, not bad at calcula- 
tion when number one is concerned.” 

“Thanks, old man, that’s a very pretty compliment. 
In other words, you mean I’m not quite a fool. No, I 
hope not where my interests are concerned. But then 


A POOR RELATION. 


81 


why should I be ashamed of confessing that I am going 
to make use of your information? We must show a lit- 
tle worldly wisdom even in our love-making. However 
mucli I might love Maude Hartley, I couldn’t afford to 
marry her as a penniless girl. I suddenly discover, how- 
ever, that she has most excellent prospects. Very well, 
now I am free to give my feelings fair play. Any great 
sin in that?” 

“Not the slightest,” said his cousin, with a smile. “Go 
in and win, I repeat, and may I be best man at the wed- 
ding.” 

Crossland began his wooing of Maude Hartley under 
what may be considered favorable auspices. He had 
been on friendly terms with all h^r family ever since 
their first arrival, and, if not a frequent, had at least 
been a regular, visitor at Ivy Cottage. He had, moreover, 
nothing to repent of in his past treatment of Uncle Jack. 
Decided failure as he was supposed to be. Crossland had 
always shown himself inclined to be friendly to him, and 
that not merely out of consideration for the family. His 
reasons for thus acting had not been destitute of self- 
interest. It was, in fact, one of his rules of life, only 
broken in the case of Job Turner, whom he disliked, that 
it might often prove worth while to go out of his way to 
show a little kindness to people who might seem the 
least able to return it. On the other hand, it might prove 
dangerous to make an enemy of any man. 

Civility cost nothing, and frequently might prove a 
good investment. 


82 


A- POOR RELATION. 


' CHAPTER XI. 

' RESCUED FROM DROWNING. 

• 

“His life was gentle; and the elements 
So mix’d in him, that Nature might stand up, 

And say to all the world, ‘This was a man !’ ” 

—Shakespeare. 

In the beginning of the following month a terrific and 
most destructive gale swept across the whole countryside 
in the neighborhood of Rushton, and, day after day, high 
winds wrought havoc in every direction. Near the 
town, and in the village of Marburn, the roads and foot- 
ways were strewn with pieces of chimney-pots, bricks, 
tiles and other debris, while, here and there, a stack of 
chimneys had fallen, causing considerable damage to 
the roof below. Trees were blown down in all direc- 
tions, and an old-fashioned, half-ruined house on the 
outskirts of the village was literally overthrown. Also, 
to the great grief of the vicar, one of the turrets of the 
ancient church-tower was blown off altogether. 

Among its other natural attractions, the neighborhood 
of Rushton could boast of a river, called the Lent. As 
the country all about was remarkably flat, this river was 
somewhat sluggish in its movements, and, except in 
winter, when its current was rather swollen, the patient 
barge-horses found but little assistance from it in their 
toils, even when pulling with the stream. But the storm 
had quite altered its character. The numerous tributary 
streams and brooks which usually, with placid, quiet, 
meandering ways, flowed into it, had become full to 
overflowing with the recent heavy downfall, and 


A POOR RELATION. 


83 


poured with swifter current tlieir augmented contribu- 
tions into the bosom of the mother stream. Far and 
wide the Lent overflowed its banks, spreading its wild 
destruction over the low-lying fields on each side of it 
and sweeping along in its impetuous current everything 
portable in its headlong course to the sea. Thus wind 
and water combined in the work of devastation. 

Squire Ingham groaned over the work of the many 
repairs which he foresaw would be required, and was so 
bad-tempered that inside the Hall, as well as outside, the 
east wind might be said to prevail most unpleasantly. 

It seemed to him, as he sat in his study thinking of 
his empty coffers and the numerous demands that would 
be made upon his slender resources by an exacting ten- 
antry, that it was a bitter irony of fate which caused 
some of the Radicals of Rushton, at that identical time, 
to be holding him up by name, with others of the neigh- 
boring gentry, as one whose eyes “swelled out with fat- 
ness,” a “bloated aristocrat,” who preyed upon the poor 
and grew rich upon their leanness, a capitalist, who 
sweated all whom he employed, etc. It maybe remarked 
that the Radical vocabulary w^as singularly rich in oppro- 
brious epithets, even if they were not always justly ap- 
plied. 

“Here’s one of my own tenants, too, beeii holding forth 
to them,” he cried out, in a rage, throwing down the 
Rushton Advertiser in disgust and looking across to Eus- 
tace, who w-as reading the Times. “We are not half care- 
ful enough in finding out a man’s political opinions be- 
fore w^e take him on as a tenant. My father wouldn’t 
liave had a Radical dog bark on the estate.” 

“Ah ! tliat may be, but you must remember the world 
has moved on a bit since then. Public opinion wouldn’t 


84 


A POOR RELATION. 


stand such doings nowadays. Besides, in these times 
it’s hard enough to get good tenants at all, whatever 
their opinions may be.” 

“Well, I didn’t encourage Radicals on the place when I 
was looking after the property,” grunted the squire, 
casting an angry look at his son. “But I don’t suppose 
you are at all careful in the matter.” 

“I don’t think I am,” replied Eustace, calmly, “al- 
though I do think I should draw the line at a professional 
agitator.” 

“Sometimes the amateurs are the worst.” 

Instead of replying, Eustace began to wonder what 
his father’s feelings would be should his latest tenant at 
Willow Cottage take to airing his opinions on a public 
platform. 

“Well, I suppose you will have to go and see what 
damage has been done,” groaned his father; “we shall 
have all sorts of complaints. ’ ’ * 

The squire was in pressing need of money, just then, 
with which to pay off one of his private debts, but he felt 
this was a most unpropitious time to ask his son to sup- 
ply his demands, for Eustace would insist upon first 
making the repairs rendered necessary by the late storm. 
It was only on- the condition that he should have quite a 
free hand that he had undertaken the management of 
the property. 

“Yes, and well-founded complaints, too,” answ^ered 
the young man, throwing down his paper. “I must be 
off to see with my own eyes what wants doing.” Then, 
ringing the bell, he ordered his horse to be saddled. 

A little later, when he was riding past Willow Cottage, 
he saw Mr. Hartley mournfully contemplating the dam- 


A POOR RELATION. 


85 


age done to his little front garden, which was strewn 
with fragments of tiles and bricks. Half of a chimney 
had been blown down. 

“Nice business, colonel, isn’t it?” he remarked, as 
Eustace stopped to speak to him. Uncle Jack was fond 
of bestowing gratuitous titles. “But, mind you,’’ he 
added, hastily, “I shan’t- ask you to put up that chimney. 
You’ve spent a lot over the old place lately ; treated me 
handsome. And I won’t forget it. This is my little job. 
‘Fair doings all round’ is my motto.” 

“I wish all the tenants would act up to that,” said 
Eustace, rather ruefully. “Some of them will let a place 
go to ruin before they will even put a nail in, or a hand- 
ful of mortar, even when they live under a repairing 
lease. But, according to the RusTiton and Paddington 
Advertiser, all the tenants are simply perfect in their lit- 
tle ways ; it’s only the landlords that can ever do wrong. ’ ’ 

“I am afraid yours is rather a thankless task this 
morning,” hazarded Uncle Jack. 

“Yes, very much so. But then, you know,” he added, 
sadly, but with no trace of bitterness in his tone, “if it 
were not for the thankless tasks we have life might be 
made a little too easy for us.” Then, wishing his new 
tenant good-morning, Eustace rode off. 

“Thankless tasks !” murmured Uncle Jack to himself, 
“well, I guess that young man has his share. ’Pears to 
me his whole life, at present, is a thankless task, man- 
aging and patching up a property merely for the sake of 
the creditors. Nice sort of man the old squire must be ! 
I’d like to give him a bit of my mind. Keeping race-horses 
and gambling, indeed ! I’d gamble him, an old selfish 
reprobate ! When a man begins to play the fool with 
the old family property his friends ought to have the 


86 


A POOR RELATION, 


power of locking him up. That’s my opinion. But now 
I must be off, and get this blessed old chimney fixed up 
again. So now for Jim Bowers, the bricklayer.” 

The said Jim Bowers lived in a cottage facing the road 
which led to Rushton, just half-way between that town 
and Marburn. There was also a short cut to his house 
leading through the fields. This was the way Uncle Jack 
ciiose. Time was money ; moreover, a walk througli 
the fields was pleasanter both to the feet and eyes. About 
half a mile from the village this path crossed a little tril>- 
utary of the Lent by means of a wooden foot-bridge. 

Before reaching this bridge — in fact, while still three 
hundred yards from it — the old gentleman met his 
nephew, Gerald, evidently on his way to Marburn, and, 
presumably. Ivy Cottage. The young man was in an 
evil temper that morning. Lord Granton had written, 
at last, in answer to his second appeal to him, bidding 
him have patience, and saying that sooner or later he 
hoped to be able to do something for him, but just then 
there seemed to be no vacancy that he could command. 
As it was not the first time his noble relative had incul- 
cated the virtue of patience, Gerald’s impatience that 
morning had not been unreasonably aroused. And then 
he had received by the same post a dunning letter from 
a tradesman at Rushton respecting a bill which he was 
unable to pay. Some remnant of shame had prevented 
his troubling Mrs. Hartley again, and Grace and Maude 
' had both declared that at present they could not help 
him. Jack had flatly refused to listen to his request for 
a loan, saying among other things, eminently truthful 
but scarcely pleasant hearing, that Gerald was already 
considerably in his debt. And he added, too, that he 
himself had a bill to pay that week. Above all, Uncle 


A POOR RELATION. 


< 


Jack had given him a gentle remonstrance that morning, 
after hearing of the tenor of Lord Granton’s letter, and had 
spoken of the folly of building any hopes on the prom- 
ises of others, however well-intentioned they might be. 
As usual, Gerald had bitterly resented his uncle’s inter- 
ference. And now, on his way to his friend Crossland’s, 
he found further cause for ill humor. On arriving at the 
little bridge, physically brave as he was, he did not dare 
trust himself to it. It was a very narrow wooden bridge 
with a hand-rail on either side of it, and it was built on 
wooden beams, or trestles. One of these supports— the 
one built just in the middle of the stream — had been 
swept away by the swollen waters, now rushing along 
with unwonted violence and speed. The storm* had left 
its mark on the old bridge which had been for a long 
time gradually rotting away under the influence of wind 
and wave. Just in the center of the bridge there was 
now, therefore, a long space to which Gerald would not 
venture to trust even his slender weight, especially as 
he was fearful lest the remaining supports had been un- 
dermined and weakened during the late storm. 

“Hang it all! what a bore,” he muttered to himself, 
surveying the bridge, which trembled from one end to 
the other with every gust of wind which blew. “I’m 
not going to trust myself to that rickety old thing now. 
My only wonder is that every blessed beam hasn’t been 
washed away. I wouldn’t mind a wetting, but tumbling 
into that current would be above a joke ; you’d be swept 
into the Lent before you could swim a stroke.” 

And he turned back in disgust. 

“I suppose this is the way to Jim Bowers, the brick- 
layer’s, Gerald?” asked his uncle, as the young man 
came up to him. 


88 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Yes; you can’t miss it,” replied Gerald, gruffly, 
without stopping. 

Uncle Jack appeared to take no notice of his short re- 
ply. “Hasn’t forgiven my speaking to him this morn- 
ing,” said he to himself. “Poor Gerald! how different 
from his father. He wouldn’t sulk for a moment.” 

In the meantime Gerald quickened his pace. He felt 
ill at ease. Conscience was urging him on to hurry back 
and warn his uncle that the bridge was unsafe. Once he 
stopped, half resolved to obey the still small voice. An- 
other moment he hesitated ; his ha If -formed resolution 
came to naught. 

“No,” he muttered, doggedly, to himself, “if he can’t 
mind his own business I can mind mine, at any rate. 
People must look after themselves. He’s old enough to 
do that. And, if he does get in, a ducking may do him 
good. And perhaps the old bridge may stand his weight, 
after all.” 

Thus stifling his better impulses with these plausible 
arguments, he hurried on. But almost involuntarily he 
put his hands over his ears. Was he afraid of suddenly 
hearing some cry for help? 

Uncle Jack by no means liked the appearance of the 
bridge. “Tumbledown old concern,” he murmured, 
“and not improved by this storm. And what a big space 
between tlie two landing-places ! It never struck me be- 
fore. I suppose the extra quantity of water made it look 
different. I don’t like it, don’t like it,” and he shook his 
head solemnly. “I would not venture,” he went on, to 
himself, “if I didn’t know I was lighter than Gerald. It 
carried him all right, and so it will me. Here goes, at any 
rate.” He reached the middle of the bridge in safety. 
Then there was a snap, and then a gradual sinking of the 


A POOR RELATION. 


89 


frail planks. The next moment Uncle Jack was being hur- 
ried down toward the Lent by the impetuous waters of 
the swollen stream. 

Vainly he tried to strike out for the land ; in vain, too, 
he nervously clutched at the willows which overhung 
each bank ; the stream seemed resistless in its might. 
Every attempt he made was ineffectual. 

And now he is in the broader waters of the Lent itself. 
Once he sinks, still powerless to wrestle for life and 
safety. He rises to the surface; consciousness is fast 
leaving him. His strength is almost gone. One last 
prayer rises from his heart. 

Suddenly he feels himself seized by a strong arm. A 
few yards more, and he is urged by the same strong arm 
toward the left bank. Another moment, and his feet 
touch the ground. “Hold up for a second,” cries a 
friendly voice in his ear. 

Struggling, floundering, and forced onward by that 
kindly drm, he gets on a few yards further. Another 
moment, and lie and his preserver are lying exhausted 
on the sodden ground of a low-lying meadow which has 
only recently been deserted because of the overflowings 
of the Lent. 


90 


A POOR RELATION. 


CHAPTER XII. 

UNCLE jack’s illness. 

“The end crowns all; 

And that old common arbitrator, Time, 

Will one day end it.” 

—Shakespeare. 

“That was a near shave ! How am I to thank you?” 
asked Uncle Jack of his preserver, when he had some- 
what recovered from the effects of his immersion. 

George Turner — for he it was who had come up just in 
time to effect the rescue — smiled as he answered : “I can 
only say, as one always says under such circumstances, 
I don’t want any thanks ; I only did — ” 

“Just what any one would have done, or tried to do. 
Exactly. Very commonplace on the part of both of us, 
isn’t it? But how differently two Frenchmen would 
have behaved! Whj*, we should have been in each 
other’s arms, and I should have looked a bigger fool than 
I do now, when I can’t stammer out a few words of 
gratitude. What cold-blooded, reserved people we En- 
glish are at times!” added Hartley, with a rueful air. 
Then, as the memory of those dreadful moments through 
which he had just passed returned to his mind with full 
force, he heartily wrung the young man’s hand, crying 
earnestly: “But you must imagine all I would like to 
say.” 

“Well, you see,” said George, deprecatingly, “after 
all, there wasn’t much danger for me. I knew exactly 
the channel of the river and when we should get out of 


A POOR RELATION. 


91 


the strong current. But now,” he went on, eager to 
change the subject, and perceiving that the elder man 
was shivering, ‘det us both go to my home and change 
our wet things. I daresay we can rig you out in some- 
thing dry.” 

“Not a bad idea,” replied Uncle Jack, gratefully. 
“Your house is nearer than mine, and we must not catch 
rheumatism. I must say I feel a bit queer.” 

They soon reached the Old Grange, and Hartley for 
the first time met Job Turner. It happened to be one of 
the old man’s bad days. The east wind had increased his 
rheumatism, and with it the unamiability of his temper. 
As Ben the plowman expressed it, “T’ owd master was 
regular on the grumble.” 

“What do you bring him here for, George?” he mut- 
tered, aside, in a tone which was meant to be low but was 
too shrill to be unheard. “I’m sure we’re poor enough 
without havin’ to entertain an idle ne’er-do-well like 
him.” Job always felt a grudge, in those days, against 
men of no known occupation. 

“He’s been nearly drowned,” said George, gently. 

“Well, well, it’s like enough. Doesn’t t’ old Book say 
they shall be clean swept away— them as is ungodly? 
Ask your mother if it isn’t so.” 

There was no time to argue with the churlish old fel- 
low. “We’ll go to mother,” said George, promptly; 
“that’s a good idea, father. You’ve a kind heart, in spite 
of all your talk.” And then he hurried Uncle Jack up- 
stairs, where they met his mother, who was just coming 
down, in great conceri^ at the news Molly had taken to 
her of their arrival and condition. • 

Uncle Jack was as pleased at her cordial reception as 
he had been repulsed by the old man’s behavior. And 


92 


A POOR RELATION. 


when she insisted that it vv^as safer for him to go to bed, 
if only for a few hours, after the wetting he had had, 
and promised hot bottles and warm blankets to take 
away the horrible chill which he was still feeling, he 
gratefully accepted her offer. In a short time he was 
comfortably “fixed,” as he called it, in George’s bed, and 
the warm cordial, which Mrs. Turner brought him with 
her OAv'ii hands, soon caused him to fall asleeij. 

It was late in the evening when he awoke to find 
George sitting reading by the fire, which had been light- 
ed soon after his arrival. Something in the young man’s 
wearied attitude and in the earnest face, which drooped 
a little over his book, roused Uncle Jack’s deep interest. 
Life was not all too smooth for this gallant rescuer of 
his. How patient he had been with his cross old father ! 
And, now he remembered, Jack the younger had spoken 
gratefully more than once of all his kindness to him. 
And, ah ! what was he doing now? 

With no suspicion that his patient was awake and 
watching him, George, feeling too tired to read, pushed 
his book away, and, taking a photograph from his pocket, 
gazed long and earnestly at it. Uncle Jack could see it 
was a girl’s face at which he was looking, but was too 
far off to recognize the likeness. A deep sigh, as George 
replaced the photograph in its little case and slowly re- 
turned it to his pocket, still further enlisted the ex-Amer- 
ican’s sympathy. 

“Turner,” he said, “and was dismayed to find how fee- 
ble his voice had become, “Turner, help me up. It’s 
getting late. I must go home. ” 

“Nay, nay,” said George, springing up and taking his 
hand kindly. “You must lie still. The doctor is coming 
to see you in the morning before you get up. He has 


A POOR RELATION. 


93 


been once — mother sent for him— but you were asleep. 
You have been feverish and restless, moaning a good 
deal. And he said you had had a shock to your system. 
He left this for you to drink.” And George held a glass 
to his patient’s lips as tenderly as his mother might have 
done. 

“But— but,” said Hartley, “I shall be such a trouble to 
you all. Your father — ” 

“Oh, he, too, says you must stay,” said George. “I 
have explained all about it to him. He was scarcely him- 
self this morning. You know, he suffers so with the rheu- 
matism. Yes, I’ve been on to Willow Cottage and have 
told your servant where you are, and that she is to take 
care of everything ; and Gr — I mean your niece. Miss 
Hartley, will kindly look after her a little.” 

“Have you been to Ivy Cottage, too?” asked Uncle 
Jack, not unobservant of the little slip George had made. 

“Yes. Oh! no trouble; only a pleasure to drop in 
there and tell them all about it. Jack is at Rushton 
until very late this evening, or I’m sure he would have 
come to look after you, and Mrs. Hartley is not well 
enough. But Miss Hartley will be here first thing in the 
morning. She would have come to-night, but cannot 
leave her mother.” 

“I thought I had another nephew,” said the invalid, 
faintly. It tired him to talk. 

“Ah ! you must not speak another word,” said George, 
not answering the reference to Gerald, whom he had 
heard flatly refuse to visit his uncle. 

“I say, you must go to bed yourself,” said Uncle Jack. 
“I shall be right enough when I am left alone. I want 
to sleep; I’m strangely sleepy.” 

“Good-night,” said George. “I’m only in the next 


94 


A POOR RELATION. 


room, if you want anything. You iriu.st just knock at 
the wall, and I’ll be w’ith you in a moment.” 

He went out as he spoke. But more than once during 
the night that followed Uncle Jack awmke to find liim in 
the room, either arranging the bedclothes, w^hich lie was 
constantly tossing about, or mending tlie fire, or light- 
ing a fresh night-light. 

.The next morning the doctor came and ordered Uncle 
Jack to stay in bed for a week, at least, if he wanted to 
avoid a most.severe attack of rheumatic fever. Later in 
the day Grace came and sat beside him for an hour or 
two with her needlework. Her uncle was very pleased 
at that attention on lier part, and liked to watch the 
sweet face bent over the sewing and listen to the click, 
click of the busy needle. 

“My dear,” he said, once, “why do you work so hard?” 

“Because I have so much sewing to do,” she answered, 
brightly. Her business was prospering ; she was becom- 
ing known as “a good hand” at it. 

“Are you doing it for your mother?” 

“No— yes— well, that is, indirectly.” replied Grace, with 
some hesitanc}^ 

The sick man watched her a long time without speak- 
ing. He had more than once lieard members of the 
family appealing to her for money, and had concluded 
that she had a little income of her own. Was it possible 
that that little was earned by the labor of her hands? 
What a sweet, brave face she had ! He found liimself 
murmuring: “ ‘Strength and honor are her clothing, and 
she shall rejoice in time to come.’ ” 

“My dear,” he said, feebly, “if ever you want money 
you must let me knowx Will you?” 


A POOR RELATION. 


95 


She gave a quick glance of surprised dismay. Had he 
discovered her secret ? Did he think that, poor as he was, 
he would rather pinch a little himself than have her work 
too hard? She thought it was so, and was as grateful in • 
her pretty, graceful way as if he had promised her a 
fortune. 

“But now, uncle dear, you must not talk,” she said, 
after she had thanked and kissed him. “You must drink 
this and go to sleep again,” and she handed him his med- 
icine with an imperious little air which made him obey 
her. 

When he awoke again she had gone, but the roses left 
in a vase upon the table, and a strip of the pretty silk she 
had been sewing, which, having slipped down upon the 
floor by her chair, had escaped her observation, convinced 
him that he had not only dreamed she had been there. 

A little later George came in the room, and thinking 
Uncle Jack was asleep, held the roses caressingly to his 
face, and even gathered up the strip of silk, and after 
toying with it in a tender, dreamy fashion, folded it care- 
fully and placed it in his pocket. “I fancy I know what 
is going on,” said the ex- American to himself ; but aloud 
he said nothing. 

During the week which followed he had a good oppor- 
tunity of testing the afifection of his relatives, who by no 
means behaved alike. Grace came for a few hours every 
day, with flowers and more substantial gifts in the way 
of jelly and fruit ; and she always brought her sewing 
and sat beside him, working busilf for two or three 
hours. Maude came occasionally, and chatted merrily 
and smiled on her “poor, dear uncle,” and Anally took 
her departure, “lest she should weary him.” Gerald did 
not put in an appearance at all, and his uncle did not fail 


96 


A POOR RELATION. 


to notice the lack of attention on his part, though he 
made no complaint to the others about it. 

Then, at length, the doctor gave him permission to 
come downstairs, and he found himself comfortably en- 
sconced in a large armchair, opposite old Job, by the 
brightest of bright fires. 

‘Tt is so much warmer for you here, and more cheer- 
ful. too, I think, than it would be in the best i)arlor,” 
said Mrs. Turner, apologetically. She would like to have 
given him the very best in her power, but old Job had 
stoutly refused to allow her to light another fire ‘Svhen 
coals were so dear and times so bad,” so she was trying 
to make the most of what she had to offer. 

‘T guess I should have been vexed if you had put me 
anywhere but where you sit yourselves,” said Uncle 
Jack. However, he found the near neighborhood of Job 
was not by any means enlivening, and often wished liim- 
self back in his bedroom with Grace sewing beside liim. 
But she still came every day, and he liked to see how 
old Job “brightened up” and was in his best mood be- 
fore her. Some one else “brightened up,” too, and was 
at his best, also, when the girl came in ; and her uncle 
was not slow to notice it. He did not, either, fail to 
perceive the radiant happiness in Grace’s looks when slie 
and George were together. Uncle Jack could put two 
and two together as well as any man. 

He could not help admiring the extreme patience with 
which George always bore his father’s complaints, some- 
times leveled against himself, the late storm, the bad 
prospects of farmers, and tilings in general. Job was 
never at a loss for a text. 

“I expect the young man has a pretty rough life of it, 
at times,” thought he; “seems to bear up patiently, too; 


A POOR RELATION. 


97 


has some real grit in him, and no mistake ! I expect 
Job’s wife hasn’t a bed of roses to lie on, either; but 
there, perhaps she’s used to it, and I daresay her liiis- 
band has some good points in him, after all.” 

When he was strong enough to go out. Uncle Jack sug- 
gested that George should show him over the farm, and 
this the latter readily consented to do. 

Hartley was not impressed by the condition of things 
on the farm. It was very plain that George was not al- 
lowed a free hand in its management. Everything bore 
traces of a strictly conservative mind ; old-fashioned im- 
plements, old-fashioned ways were still in vogue on the 
whole place. 

“My father and I,” said the young man, as if in an- 
swer to his thoughts, “don’t quite agree in our ideas on 
agriculture. He thinks I am too go-ahead and fond of 
change, and I — ” 

“I suppose you would like to go in for all the newest 
theories,” interrupted the other. 

“Some of them, at all events,” replied George, with- 
out, however, showing the least trace of bitterness or 
disappointment in his tone. 

“Pretty happy here, on the whole?” asked Hartley, 
somewhat bruskly and certainly most irrelevantly, after 
a slight pause. 

“Well, I should feel happier if I had a little more to do. 
I have been trained for a land-agent’s place, but, unfort- 
unately, owing to my father’s constant attacks of 
rheumatism, I don’t feel justified in leaving home alto- 
gether. And there is not enough for me to do in looking 
after this farm, even when I put in a few days plow- 
ing, or work like that, at times.” 


98 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Especially when your father is still practically man- 
ager?” hazarded Hartley. 

“Well, if you put it like that,” returned the other, 
pleasantly. 

“And what would you like to get in order to fill up 
your time?” 

“Oh, a place as land-agent quite in the neighborhood, 
80 that I could give an eye to things here, or even live at 
home as usual. ” i 

“Ah ! I see. But such places are not to be had every 
day, I should fancy,” replied Uncle Jack. “But some- 
thing may turn up. Yes,” he said, hopefully, “you keep 
on looking out, and something will be sure to turn up.” 

“There are so few changes in the neighborhood,” said 
George, wondering a little at his tone. “But now I am 
sure you have walked far enough, and we must go in.” 

A day or two after that Hartley returned to Willow 
Cottage, with a very grateful and kindly feeling toward 
the mother and son at the Old Grange, and also toward 
Grace, who had done so much to make his stay there 
pleasant. 

As for Gerald, he quite absolved him in his mind from 
possessing any knowledge of the dangerous condition of 
the bridge, which had proved so treacherous and had 
been the cause of so much suffering to himself. He im- 
agined that, although so near, his nephew had not in- 
tended to cross it that morning, or that, having crossed 
it in safety, he had naturally concluded it would prove 
safe for others. Never for one moment did the suspicion 
cross his mind that Gerald was fully aware at the time 
he met him of the danger that threatened any one who 
should venture to cross the damaged structure. Such a 
suspicion the ex- American’s generous mind would have 


A POOR RELATION. 


99 


rejected with scorn. It would have been too incredible 
that his own nephew would have been guilty of sm;li 
cold-blooded treachery. 

But the young man’s behavior in so persistently stay- 
ing away from him looked strange ; and it was event- 
ually Gerald himself who opened his uncle’s eyes to the 
truth and betrayed his guilty secret. 

Gerald, judging his uncle by himself, imagined that 
the elder Hartley was firmly convinced that he had de- 
liberately, by his guilty silence, lured him on to his dire 
accident. And by his altered manner, in consequence of 
thinking thus, he unconsciously betrayed himself. 

There is an old Latin proverb which says : “OcZisse quern 
Iceseris.” (“You hate the man you have wronged.”) And 
we learn from Scripture that Saul hated David, after he 
had made one or two attempts on the young man’s life. 
In “Nicholas Nickelby” Dickens says, in exemplification 
of the same proverb: “When it is remembered that Sir 
Mulberry Hawk had’ plundered, duped, deceived and 
foiled his pupil in every possible way, it will not be won- 
dered at that, beginning to hate him, he began to hate 
him cordially.” 

Gerald had entertained a feeling of dislike for his 
uncle from the very first, and, as time went on, this dis- 
like had increased in intensity, until, at length, it had 
grown into positive hatred. 


100 


A POOR RELATION, 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE squire’s views. 

“Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; 

Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.” 

—Shakespeare. Merry Wives of Windsor. 

As WE have seen from the very beginning of their ac- 
quaintance, the Inghams had been very friendly with the 
Hartleys. The young people found great pleasure in 
each other’s society, and Mrs. Ingham liked the whole 
family very much. Only the squire did not “take to” 
them at all. In fact, he barely tolerated the new friends 
his wife and children had found. And after the first few 
weeks his toleration gave place to a strong feeling of dis- 
like at the intimacy which seemed every day to grow 
stronger. He was not backward in expressing his views 
to Mrs. Ingham. 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Sophia,” he said one morning 
to his wife, on hearing that Kate and Eustace had gone 
off on some walking expedition with Maude and Gerald 
Hartley, “you encourage these young people to come 
here a great deal too much. Look at Gerald, he’s an 
idle, worthless young fellow, loafing about all day and 
sponging on his mother. From what I hear they are 
very badly off ; in fact, they must be, or that young Jack 
would not have to work for that low Radical paper at 
Rushton. And if so, why doesn’t the other stir himself? 
I suppose he is too proud to do any kind of work because 
he’s a Hartley and related to Lord Granton. Well, if 
Lord Granton won’t take the trouble to remember his re- 


A POOR RELATION. 


101 


lations— and I really don’t see why he should— let the 
young fellow pocket his pride and try to do something 
for an honest living. Birth is all very well, but honesty 
is better; and I hear he’s getting into debt all over the 
place.” 

‘‘Ah! my dear, you mustn’t believe all you hear,” liis 
wife interposed, gently. ‘‘I’m sure young Mr. Hartley 
seems very fond of his mother and sisters. He would 
never hurt them by any extravagance, surely.” 

‘‘I don’t know about that,” replied the squire, hotly. 
‘‘Some young people are so abominably selfish, and think 
of nothing but their own pleasure and the gratification 
of their own tastes.” 

The squire himself liad never been a model of self- 
denial, nor one who placed his own pleasures last, as 
every one who lived with him knew well ; but then his 
character was not under discussion just then. He had 
liis own son in view, too, when he spoke of the selfish- 
ness of the young people of the present day. Eustace 
hardly seemed inclined to enter into the arrangements 
for his marriage which his father had once or twice 
suggested to him. 

The squire earnestly desired that his son should make 
an offer of marriage to the daughter of a neighboring 
landowner. But, so far, Eustace had been deaf to all his 
hints, and the father fancied that, since the arrival of 
Maude Hartley, his disinclination to discuss the subject of 
Mary Wright and her fortune had increased rather than 
diminished. Maude’s personal charms seemed to have 
more attraction over him than Mary Wright’s many thou- 
sands. But these were absolutely necessary, unless that 
part of the property which was heavily mortgaged was 
to pass into the hands of strangers. 


102 


A POOR RELATION. 


“You know,” the squire went on, in a peevish tone, 
“what a splendid chance Eustace has now of saving most 
of the estate. Wright is on my side, and I don’t think 
the young lady is likely to prove unreasonable — she«has 
been well brought up— but, of course, if he proves obsti- 
nate.the whole scheme falls to the ground.” 

“But I don’t see exactly what all this has to do with 
our young friends,” suggested his wife, timidly. 

‘ ‘ Don’t you, Sophia? Then you must be willfully blind, ’ ’ 
ciiod the squire, passionately. “You know my wishes 
and your son’s best interests, and you deliberately en- 
courage him to fall into temptation. Can’t you see that 
he is half in love with the younger Miss Hartley? At 
any rate, he admires* her extremely; shows his good 
taste, too, for, after all, she is a very charming girl. But 
in his case he can’t afford to marry merely for love, how- 
ever charming the young lady may.be.” 

“Perhaps, my dear, if you were to give him a hint,” 

• . 

began Mrs. Ingham, “if you really think there is any 
danger — ” 

“Give him a hint!” shouted her husband. “Just the 
very thing to spoil everything. He’d turn pig-headed at 
once, suddenly discover that he was over head and ears 
in love with the girl ; fancy himself a martyr and me a 
tyrant. Oh, dear, what a fool I was not to foresee all 
this bother from the very first !” 

“But, my dear, you- can’t keep the young people apart. ” 

'‘No ; but you needn’t, as it were, throw them into each 
other’s arms. Especially in these days when parents 
seem to lose all authority over their children. But it’s 
all the fault of this low radical, democratic age. School 
boards for education, science lectures, the extension of 
the franchise, and all these other quack medicines are 


A POOR RELATION. 


103 


simply ruining the country. There’s no respect for au- 
thority left. One man’s as good as another, the work- 
ingman is better than his master. When I was a boy we 
were taught to order ourselves lowly and reverently to 
all our betters, among others our parents. Now, when 
you want your children to do their duty and carry out 
your wishes, they maunder on about ‘marrying for love,’ 
or the liberty of the subject.” 

]Mrs. Ingham said nothing. Perhaps she knew that, in 
the squire’s mood, “the less said the better.” 

Presently he began again. “And then there’s Kate. 
What could induce you to encourage that young Hartley 
here, when you know how fond girls are of a handsome 
face? Heaven knows what may be going on when they 
are so much together ! Kate can be as obstinate as a 
mule, as you know. I wish to goodness one could lock 
girls up till one had a husband ready for them. There’s 
something good in convents, after all. 

Then, after another slight pause, in which he seemed 
to be meditating upon the possibility of finding some 
good modern substitute for a nunnery, he continued: ‘‘I 
wish we could find a reasonable excuse for putting an 
end to this absurd, this dangerous intimacy between all 
these young idiots. Thank goodness, we’ve arranged to 
go abroad for a time ! I hate foreign parts and foreign- 
ers, as you know— in fact, there’s no place worth living 
in except England ; but I’d stand any discomfort in order 
to keep Eustace and Kate out of temptation. And, if he 
does not stay with us all the time. I’ll take care he doesn’t 
stay here. I’ll shut the place up first. ’ ’ 

It was shortly after Uncle Jack’s arrival at Marburn 
that the Inghams carried out this project of going 
abroad. Besides his wish to keep the young people of the 


104 A POOR RELATION. 

two families apart, the squire had motives of economy 
as well. It was so much cheaper living in some little 
quiet French or German town than at home, where you 
were obliged, as he said, to keep up a certain establish- 
ment. His finances had been in a very bad state for a 
long time, but, like many other people of extravagant 
habits, his fit of economy had seized him rather too late 
to be of much service. It was like locking the stable 
door after the steed had been stolen. 

The Hartleys, all except Grace, heard of this intended 
journey of their friends at the Hall with feelings akin to 
dismay. It was disagreeable to lose almost their only 
friends and companions for such a lengthened period. 

“That’s always the way,” sighed Maude, “as soon as 
ever you really get to know and like people something 
is sure to happen to separate you. Either they get mar- 
ried, or they go abroad, or fail, or do something equally 
horrid. How many friends did we lose at Beckford in 
some of these ways?” 

“The moral is,” said Grace, with a smile, “don’t de- 
pend too much upon friends for your happiness.” 

“Oh! that’s like one of Uncle Jack’s speeches,” said 
Maude. “Let me see, what did he say last time he was 
here? Oh! I remember. We ought not to depend for 
our happiness on other people. Everybody should have 
sufficient resources in themselves, and so on.” 

Well, perhaps it isn’t always for our own happiness 
to get to know people too well,” replied Grace, gently, 
with a significant look at Maude. 

Maude colored vividly. She knew what Grace meant. 
And, indeed, she had often asked herself of late what 
would be the end of her friendship with Eustace Ingham 


A POOR RELATION. 


105 


liappiness or misery ? Almost before she was aware of 
it, her heart had passed out of her keeping. She was no 
longer fancy free.” Yes, she tremblingly whispered to 
lierself, while a faint blush mantled her cheeks, she did 
love Eustace Ingham, and she hoped, nay, thought, that 
he cared for her. 

But what of the squire? How would he regard any 
engagement between herself and Eustace? Would he 
ever sanction it? Maude was fain to confess that she had 
little hope of that. Of late, without being rude, or even 
markedly inhospitable, something in his manner plainly 
showed the girl that her presence at the Hall was not 
altogether pleasing to its owner. There was a decided 
lack of warmth in his welcome, an absence of regret at 
lea ve-takiiig. He never seconded any invitation given 
by Mrs. Ingham or the others ; never suggested any little 
plan for their amusement, and, indeed, at times plainly 
discouraged some of their schemes for a day’s excursion 
in the neighborhood, or a ride or drive together. 

Once or twice — how vividly she remembered his words ! 
— he had lamented his poverty, and deplored the fact 
that poor people like themselves had to follow the path 
of necessity rather than of inclination. His son, he had 
added, would find himself practically a poor man, unless 
he were to marry a rich wife ; and much more in the 
same strain. 

But at eighteen a girl is more inclined to dwell upon 
the immediate present, rather than the more distant fut- 
ure : or. if the latter will force itself upon her mind, to 
fondly hope that it may correspond to her most ardent 
wishes. So Maude felt more disturbed by the thought 
of the temporary absence of young Ingham than by any 
apprehensions that the future might bring a separation 


106 


A POOR RELATION. 

of a more lasting character. As Grace, however, was 
not in her confidence, she kept her feelings to herself. 

Grace, on the other hand, was secretly delighted at the 
thought that the Inghams were about to leave the Hall 
for an indefinite period. For she had plainly seen that 
her sister was not indifferent to Eustace Ingham. She 
liked him and took great pleasure in his society. In his 
T resence she was always at her best, wore her sunniest 
smiles and gave the fullest play to her natural gayety of 
spirit. At such times she was most attractive, and Grace 
saw that Eustace was attracted and found a charm in her 
society. His looks, his manner toward her, his anxiety 
to consult and gratify her tastes showed that very plain- 
ly. But Grace knew that the young people were living 
in a fool’s paradise. The squire would never give his 
consent to their marriage, and without that consent 
Maude would never yield to Eustace’s wishes, even if he 
were disposed to defy his father. Maude was too high- 
spirited to enter a family unwelcomed and unloved. 
Grace, therefore, thought this enforced separation of her 
sister and Eustace Ingham would not be at all a bad 
thing. A^Tiat might not happen before they met again? 
There was, too, the hope that a temporary absence from 
each other might tend to weaken their mutual regard 
and liking. There was the possibility in Ingham’s case 
that other and newer attractions might, in some measure, 
eradicate the influence of those whom he had left at 
home. And even Maude might change and find that she 
loved v/here love might not be forbidden and conse- 
quently hopeless. 

Such were some of the consoling thoughts that ran 
through Grace’s mind at hearing of the intended depart- 
ure of her newly made friends. And it was exactly in 


A POOR RELATION. 


107 


accordance with her nature to consider the matter as it 
affected others rather than lierself. For, indeed, she 
would be the loser when the Hall was shut up. She liked 
its inmates ; yes, even the squire. But then she could 
find something to admire in almost everybody ; at least, 
so her friends said. 

As for Gerald, he was loud in his lamentations, and 
not without cause. It was nice to have a horse placed at 
his disposal whenever he felt inclined for a ride. It Avas 
nice to have the run of the Hall estate ; there was gen- 
erally something in the way of sport to be obtained by 
land or water. And even a good dinner was not to be 
despised. Besides, it was nice to be appreciated by peo- 
ple like the Inghams. Gerald, however, would hardly 
have felt flattered if he knew how much he owed to his 
sister Maude. That he was her brother had a great deal 
to do with the way in which Eustace, at least, treated 
him. He might have lost some of his self-esteem had he 
divined the truth. This, by the way, would haA-e done 
him good. 

“A vvful bore, this sudden freak of the squire’s,” la- 
mented he to his sisters. -Not sudden, you say? Oh, 
well, awful bore all the same. Almost the only decent 
people in the neighborhood. And just as you get to know 
them off they go. Really too bad ! Of course, it doesn’t 
matter so much to you girls. You can ahvays find 
something to do at home — seAving, or reading, or practic- 
ing your music, or cooking, if you like— but a man, you 
knoAv, Avants something outside.” 

Grace thought that lie might easily find something out- 
side besides amusement if he were disposed to do so. But 
she did not always express her feelings. 

Maude Avas less reticent. “That’s A'ery kind of you,” 


108 


A POOR RELATION. 


she cried, “and just like a man — and a brother. I 
wouldn’t confess I were so selfish if I were you. We can 
find plenty of amusement and distraction in work ! Why 
don’t you try that for a change? — a little work should be 
a welcome change after such a long playtime.” 

Maude could be bitter when she allowed, her feelings 
fair play, much as she idolized and helped to spoil her 
brother. 

But Gerald never professed to feel the sting in her 
sharp speeches ; now he appeared calm and amused as 
he answered: “My dear child, don’t be in such a hurry 
and excite yourself. Is it my fault that Granton keeps 
me waiting so long? Would you have me write and tell 
him he is to hurry up, I can’t wait any longer? Or 
shall I go and ask some of the grocers or drapers at 
Rusliton to give me a place behind their counters, and 
then tell his lordship that I have obtained agreeable and 
remunerative employment?” 

“Perhaps if you wrote and told him you intended to 
enter the grocery, or even pork-butchery line, it might 
tend to make him a little more eager to help you,” said 
Maude, with a laugh. Her ill temper was seldom last- 
ing, especially when anything ridiculous came before 
her. 

“Well, there’s something in that,” drawled Gerald. 
“It’s a hint that is not to be despised. But, now, once 
more I say it’s an awful bore that the Inghams are going 
away. Let us hope, however, that they will soon get 
tired of ‘furrn parts,’ and then come back again to old 
England and — us.” 

Accidents of time and place, however, are not the only 
things which separate one man from another. Next- 


A POOR RELATION. 


109 


door neighbors may be more effectually parted than 
persons who each occupy a different hemisphere. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A CHANCE FOR GERALD. 

“Handsome is that handsome does.” 

— Goldsmith. 

It was the end of July, and the Inghams had been 
gone two months. Gerald was still daily expecting a 
letter from Lord Granton, with the offer of some post 
under the Government, when he received a very differ- 
ent offer from a very different source. 

A letter came from a firm of London solicitors, stating 
that a client of theirs, who was under certain obligations 
to the late Captain Hartley, was desirous, if possible, of 
repaying them by aiding his son, who, he was given to 
understand, was on the lookout for some suitable em- 
ployment. Their client proposed, therefore, that Mr. 
Hartley should proceed to some agricultural college 
where all his expenses would be paid for the space of at 
least two years. At the expiration of that time a post of 
agent on an estate, with a small salary to begin with, 
would be offered him. It must be understood, however, 
that Mr. Hartley would endeavor to ^the utmost of his 
ability to qualify himself for the situation. The strictest 
inquiries would be made at certain intervals as to the 
progress he was making in his studies at the said col- 
lege. In case these reports were satisfactory, in addi- 


110 


A POOR RELATION, 


tion to the defrayal of his expenses the sum of fifty 
pounds a year for personal expenses would be allowed. 
If, however, at the end of a year his progress and zeal 
for his work should not be reported as satisfactory, all 
help would immediately be withdrawn. Mr. Hartley, 
they went on to say, would oblige them by not making 
any inquiries as to the name of their client, and also by 
giving them an answer at his earliest convenience. 

“What a splendid offer!” cried Maude, rapturously, 
as she finished reading aloud the letter,, which Gerald 
had passed on to her. “ Why, Gerald, your fortune is 
made I A land-agent may make a thousand a year on a 
good estate. ’ ’ 

“Yes, and deserves it all, too,” replied Gerald, ungra- 
ciou3l3^ He was by no means delighted with the offer 
which had been made to him. 

“I wonder whoever it can be,” said Mrs. Hartley, in a 
tone of surprise. 

“Oh, somebody father helped,” said Gerald, “or, more 
probably, somebody who helped to ruin him. It’s an 
offer made as a sort of sop to some one’s conscience.” 

“Well, you have nothing to do with that,” interposed 
Grace, dreading the tone of her brother’s remarks. 

“I think I have everything to do with it,” he retorted. 
“I shouldn’t like to feel under any obligation to some’ 
scheming scoundrel.” 

“But, Gerald, love, you will not decide hastily,” plead- 
ed his mother, fearful lest he should, on the spur of the 
moment, reject this offer wliich appeared to her a most 
generous one. 

“No. I shan't do anything in a hurry,” replied Gerald ; 
“but, ail the same, I think my mind is made up even 


A POOR RELATION. 


Ill 


now.” Then, to avoid further discussion, he left the 
room. 

“Grace,” said Mrs. Hartley, who was almost in tears 
at his behavior, “do run down to your uncle’s and ask 
him to come up. He may be able to persuade Gerald to 
accept this offer.” 

“Oh, I will go, mother, dear, if you wish it, of course. 
But I don’t know that it is exactly wise to ask Uncle 
Jack to interfere. Unfortunately, he and Gerald don’t 
get on together. Besides, if Gerald is inclined to be ob- 
stinate nobody will ever persuade him to do what we 
wish.” ^ 

“Yes, and if we did persuade him against his own in- 
clinations,” interposed Maude, angTily, “he would pose 
as a martyr at once, an unwilling one, too — and they 
never do any good in the world. Really, I do get out of 
patience with him sometimes. Oh, why doesn’t Lord 
Granfon write one way or another and let him know 
what he has to expect?” 

This was a bitter speech for Maude to make about her 
brother, but the uncertainty hanging over her own j^ros- 
pects, combined with her separation from the man she 
loved, hardly tended to improve either her spirits or her 
temper. And, latterly, Gerald had been more trying 
and selfish than ever. 

Grace went off to her Uncle Jack, and explained %vhat 
her mother wished him to do. 

“So Gerald has had a good offer made to him, eh? Well, 
I hope he will have sense enough to know it’s a good one. 
Such a chance might never be given him again. But, 
my dear, I really think 1 had better, nay, I will say that 
we had better not interfere. For I am sure of this, al- 
though I don’t like to say it of your brother and my 


112 


A POOR RELATION. 


nephew, if he won’t do right for his own sake he won’t 
do it for the sake of any one else. Now, I won’t talk any 
more about that just now or I might say more than I 
ought. Tell your mother I’ll come down to Ivy Cottage, 
and, if Gerald chooses to ask my advice, why, then I’ll 
give it, but not without.” And he shook his head in a 
decided manner. 

In the meantime Gerald had hurried off to consult his 
friend Crossland, or, rather, perhaps to obtain from him 
arguments with which to defend his intended refusal of 
the offer. For, like many people wlio ask the advice of 
others, Gerald did not intend to take it unless it coincided 
with his own desires. 

“What do I advise, Gerald,” Crossland replied, in an- 
swer to the young man’s questions. “Well, really, you 
must excuse my giving you any .advice in the matter at 
all. It is a dangerous task advising people. In fact, I 
can’t afford to lose friends by attempting to do so. It is 
so easy and natural to retort, if things don’t turn out 
as we hope : ‘You advised me against my own feelings 
and better judgment.’ But listen,” he went on, seeing 
an ugly look on Gerald’s face, ‘T don’t say if I %vere in 
your place I should accept the offer, but I do say if I 
were circumstanced like you I would nccept it — jump 
at it on the spot. But then, you know, 1 haven’t a noble 
relative like Lord Granton to fall back on.” 

Gerald was far too full of self-esteem and a sense of 
his own dignity to notice the ill-disguised sneer whicli 
accompanied these words. 

Crossland was much too selfish to think seriously of 
any one’s interests but his own. This visit of Gerald’s 
placed him, therefore, in rather a difficult position. He 
didn’t wish Gerald t(^ leave just then. His presence at 


A POOR RELATION. 


113 


borne gave him a ready excuse for frequent visits at Ivy 
Cottage. But he dared not advise his rejecting the offer 
he had just received for fear of going against what he 
knew were the wishes of all the young man’s people. 
They would be seriously displeased with him if, by his in- 
fluence, Gerald threw away this chance which had been 
so unexpectedly given him. However, without seeming 
to influence him, and certainly without giving him what 
might be called advice, he did materially influence him. 
His remark about the noble* relative in the background 
added weight to Gerald’s half -formed determination to 
say “No” to his unknown friend. 

The next day he announced his decision to his mother 
and sisters. Jack had gone to his work. 

“I’m not going to accept the offer this unknown indi- 
vidual has made me,” he said, bluntly. 

“Oh, Gerald!” cried the others, simultaneously, look- 
ing at him with much reproach. 

“No, I couldn’t think of it,” he went on. “It seems to 
me that for two years I should be merely a genteel clod- 
hopper ; something like George Turner,” he added, with 
a sneer. 

Grace colored and looked extremely vexed. Maude 
noticed it, and exclaimed, warmly: “George Turner is a 
gentleman, Gerald, and you’ve no right to sneer at him 
because he does all sorts of farm work to please his poor 
old father. I honor him for it. ” 

“I have no fancy to follow the plow,” Gerald contin- 
ued, “and I suppose that would be in the programme. 
As for cattle, I never could feel interested in them as live 
stock. As prospective articles of food they are all very 
^^ell— portions of them, that is. No, I never could take 
to farming, and I don’t mean to,” he added, doggedly. 


114 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Besides, I should be a fool to accept this offer when any 
moment I may hear from Granton. He can’t throw me 
over after keeping me in suspense so long. When his 
offer comes it will be something worth having, you may 
be sure of that. He will offer me work that any one 
might be proud to accept.” This in a very dignified tone. 

His mother and sisters sat as if stunned. They had 
little faith in Lord Granton’s ability to find any suitable 
work for Gerald. He was not in the Government, and 
places were not given away now as in former times. 
These were the days of severe public competition. 

The offer which Gerald sneered at provided something 
certain and tangible, something in the immediate future, 
as well as a post of honor and value at a more distant 
period. 

Although Uncle Jack would not try to persuade his 
nephew to accept the offer which had been made him, he 
felt it his duty to remonstrate pretty freely with him 
after he had refused to accept it. There was the future 
to be considered. A word of advice, warning or remon- 
strance at the present moment might have some weight 
hereafter. 

“I’m sorry to hear, Gerald, you couldn’t see your way 
to qualify yourself for becoming a land-agent, or stew- 
ard, or whatever it is that you had the chance of becom- 
ing some time or other,” he said. 

“Well, I didn’t see my way to do it,” replied Gerald, 
hotly. 

“No, that’s just what I said,” rejoined his uncle, calm- 
ly, “and, I repeat, I’m sorry you didn’t, both for your 
sake and for the sake of others.” 

“I don't exactly see that you are one of the others,” 
retorted Gerald. 


A POOR RELATION. 


115 


“Well, no, I can’t say that your refusal will affect me 
directly. I shan’t be any the poorer for your decision, 
but I should think you might have considered a little the 
interests of your mother and sisters.’’ 

“I’m not going to turn plowboy and farmer to please 
any one,” cried Gerald, incensed at his uncle’s interfer- 
ence with his affairs. 

“You might do even worse than turn plowboy; in fact, 
you are doing worse now,” said his uncle, and he looked 
significantly at him. 

“Perhaps you will allow us to manage our own af- 
fairs,” sneered Gerald. “I don’t think your interference 
will tend to improve them. Apparently, it does not ap- 
pear as if you had been too successful in managing your 
own,” and he looked defiantly at his uncle. 

The latter kept his temper admirably under such pro- 
voking circumstances. It takes two to make a quarrel. 

“Well, we can’t always command success,” he re- 
marked, quietly, “however much we may strive to win, 
or even deserve it. But my affairs are not under consid- 
eration just now, and I want to say a word about yours. 
It’s time somebody gave you a little advice. It seems 
you are too proud to enter an office to earn an honest 
living, but you are not too proud to live at home, spong- 
ing on your mother and sisters. Unlike the man in the 
parable, you are not ashamed to beg, although you won’t 
dig. No; hear me out,” he went on, hurriedly, as his 
nephew seemed about to interrupt him. “You would 
scorn to do the work that Jack is doing, but you have no 
hesitation about living on his earnings. You take care 
to be well dressed, but you don’t mind how shabby your 
sisters go.” 

“I will not stay and listen to such insults,” began Ger- 


116 


A POOR RELATION. 


aid, furiously. “Even if you are my uncle you’ve no 
business — ’ ’ 

“To interfere?’’ suggested his uncle, as he hesitated. 
“AVell, I’ve made it my business for your poor mother’s 
sake. And pray don’t talk about insults. You know it’s 
the plain truth I’m saying, and nothing else,’’ and he 
looked fixedly at Gerald, who was too full of rage to at- 
tempt any further reply just then. “How mucli longer 
are you going to loaf about here in idleness?’’ asked his 
uncle, sternl3^ “Till you find just the work you think 
suitable for you? Pray what do you think you are fit 
for? You know how to ride — a little, that is — and shoot, 
perhaps less, and I suppose you haven’t forgotten already 
all the Latin and Greek you once learned. But that’s a 
slender lot of acquirements to begin life with. ’ ’ 

“You know I was going into the army,’’ replied Ger- 
ald, sulkily, by way of making some excuse for himself. 

“You were going into the army? Well, I haven’t 
much opinion of soldiering as a trade, but I suppose that 
till this world gets wiser and better soldiers will be nec- 
essary. But still, it’s better than idling away your life 
here, and so I ask why don’t you go into the army?’’ 

“You know I can’t afford to enter a military college, 
it is so expensive,’’ began Gerald, when his uncle inter- 
rupted him. 

“No, perhaps not,’’ he said; “but you can go into the 
army, all the same.’’ 

“You mean as a common soldier?’’ cried the young 
man, in disgust. “Enlist! Perhaps have to act as some 
one’s servant !’’ and a horrified look passed over his face. 

“Oh! I see.’’ retorted Uncle Jack, “you want to begin 
at the top of the tree. You must be master, it seems. 
Let me tell you. young man, whatever trade or profes- 


A POOR RELATION. • 117 

Sion you enter you’ll find a master over you ; somebody 
you’ll have to obey. Ay, and let me add this, there’s 
many a better man than you in the army in a private’s 
uniform, men of better birth, cleverer and of better 
character,” he added. 

“Enlist as a private soldier I” exclaimed his nephew, 
disgustedly. 

“Yes, enlist as a private soldier. Why, it might be the 
making of you. You’d get a little stupid pride and con- 
ceit taken out of you.” 

“That would be better than staying here to be contin- 
ually insulted,” remarked Gerald, bitterly. 

“No, my lad, God forbid I should wish to insult, as you 
call it, any one. I’m not trying to wound you, but to 
stir you up to try and be and do something you might 
feel proud of,” and a tinge of sadness came into his 
words, while a pitying look overspread his face. 

For the moment Gerald felt touched. A sense of 
shame stole into his hea,rt. Conscience confirmed even 
the sharpest words Uncle Jack had been saying. 

“I hope I shall have the chance soon of doing some- 
thing I really like,” he faltered. 

“You are still building on my Cousin Granton’s prom- 
ises, my lad?” his uncle asked, in not unkindly tones. 
“Unhappy is the man who trusts too much to the prom- 
ises of the great, or lives on their smiles ! He may end 
by eating his heart out in weary waiting and despair. 
They say, indeed, Granton is a good-natured man ; but 
he may not have the power to do much for you.” 

“Well, he promised to find me something,” rejfiied 
Gerald, eagerly. 

“Did he?” asked Uncle Jack, quietly ; “then he’ll keep 
his word. But don’t expect too much, and don’t throw 


118 


A POOR RELATION. 


away tlie best cliance you may ever have because you 
are hoping for something in that quarter.” 

Then Uncle Jack left him. Like a sensible man, he 
knew how far to go, and was quite satisfied with having 
made some impression uj)on his nephew. Further dis- 
cussion might simply tend to weaken the effect produced. 
As for Gerald, for a time, at least, he felt more drawn to 
his uncle than ever before. During their late inter vie^v 
he had recognized that there was a dignity in his I’elative, 
in spite of his simple dress, which was not unwortlij’ of 
a Hartley. Moreover, he possessed a knowledge of men 
and things which did not fail to inspire his nephew with 
a certain feeling of respect. Perhaps for the first time 
he began’ to ask himself how it was that Uncle Jack, 
from a worldly point of view, had made such a failure 
of his life. He was eminently active, industrious, tem- 
perate, persevering, master of many arts, and he had, be- 
sides, an intimate knowledge of the world. Above all, 
he was a man of sound judgment and infinite tact. In 
fact, just the man to get on. How, then, had he, not- 
witlistanding so many advantages, made shipwreck of 
fortune? 

But conjecture v'as in vain. And, beyond stating how 
man7>' callings he had exercised in the past. Uncle Jack 
was singularly reticent as to his history. 




T.. 




119 


A POOR RELATION. 


CHAPTER XV. 

UNCLE jack’s speech. 

“Fine thoughts are wealth, for the right use of which 
Men are and ought to be accountable, 

If not to thee, to those they influence. * 

Grant this, we pray thee, and that all who read. 

Or utter noble thoughts may make them theirs. 

And thank God for them, to the betterment 
Of their succeeding life ; that all who lead 
The general sense and taste, too apt, perchance. 

To be led, keep in mind the mighty good 
They may achieve, and are in conscience bound. 

And duty to attempt unceasingly to compass. ’ ’ 

—Bailey’s Festus. 

Although Uncle Jack had lived for so many years in 
the States under a republican form of government, he 
had by no means returned to England a republican in his 
political views. He had not the slightest wish to see the 
Queen deposed in favor of a president. As he said, 
England was a republic in all but name. The people 
really governed. The Queen was merely an ornamental 
figurehead placed in the forefront of the Ship of State ; 
the people, like the helmsman, really guided the vessel. 
So long as that was the case he was perfectly contented 
to allow matters to remain as they were. As a matter 
of fact, the British sovereign had really less i^ower than 
the President of the* United States. He put the matter 
epigrammatically thus : The sovereign reigns, but does 
not govern ; the President governs, but does not reign. 
But, of course, he admitted that this was only true with, 
in certain limits and with certain modifications. 


120 


A POOR RET.ATTON. 


After he had been at Marburn a considerable time, and 
while the squire M'as still abroad, the dissolution of Par- 
liament and consequent new election came within meas- 
urable distance. Ardent politicians on both sides began 
to prepare for the fray. Rushton was not behindhand. 
The Rushton division was represented at that time by a 
Radical. At the approaching election the Conservatives 
hoped to replace him by one of their own color — politi- 
cally speaking, that is. The Radicals, on the other hand, 
felt equally confident that their candidate would main- 
tain his position at the head of the poll. Some weeks 
before the dissolution each candidate began to bring him- 
self prominently before the Rushton electors, just, as it 
were, to remind them of the approaching contest. Each 
candidate naturally assured the electors that the only 
possible salvation for the country consisted in their re- 
turning to power a Government of his own particular 
way of thinking. This, of course, was a most unselfish 
way of putting it. Each candidate seemed to eliminate 
the personal element as far as possible. The safety of 
the country, and that alone, was the object they had in 
view while soliciting the votes of the constituency^ 

Uncle Jack’s short tenancy of Willow Cottage had not 
qualified him for a vote ; to a certain extent, therefore, 
he could assist neither party. But it was hardly to be 
expected that he intended to remain merely an idle 
spectator of the fight. EA'en if he had no vote, he in- 
tended to lift up his voice on behalf of what he consid- 
ered the truth. And each party desired to have the in- 
fluence of his voice on their side. For Uncle Jack had 
already obtained notoriety as an interesting and effec- - 
ive speaker. Both at Rushton and Marburn he had of ten 
appeared on a public platform, sometimes as lecturer. 


A POOR RELATION. 


121 


but more frequently as a speaker on behalf of some 
measure likely to benefit the town and neighborhood. 
Each party hoped that he belonged to it. Politically 
speaking, he was, as the sporting papers say, “a dark- 
horse,’ for if on some occasions he had expressed views 
which seemed strongly to favor the Radicals, on others 
he had promulgated ideas which the Tories considered 
eminently sound and orthodox. ^ * 

On more than one occasion Maude had rallied him on 
being what she called a sort of political cameleon, a 
waverer, a halter between two opinions. 

“Now, what are you reallj-, uncle?” she asked him one • 
day, shortly before the first of these political meetings 
was to be held at Rushton, “a Liberal or a Tory?” 

“Well, dear,” replied he, laughingl}-, “I don’t call my- 
self either. I object to being labeled with the ticket of 
either party. I won’t swallow every article in any polit- 
ical creed. I prefer to be perfectly independent, and if 
I had a vote I should give it to the man who would sup- 
port the most useful measures — measures not benefiting 
merely one party or section, but the coinmimity as a 
whole.” 

“I can’t say I care for politics,” said Crossland, who 
happened to be present. “I think it’s so undignified for 
a gentleman to go touting about the countr}- begging 
Tom, Dick and Harry to give him their votes. Fancy 
having to do the civil to all the petty tradespeople and 
greasy farm-laborers, simply because they happen to 
have a vote. I think a gentleman might find something 
better to do, and leave such dirty work to low-bred peo- 
ple with voices as loud as their manners.” 

“I agree with j ou,” said Gerald, who was becoming 
more and more ijifluenced by his friend— so much so now, 


122 


A POOR RELATION. 


indeed, that he was ready to forget even that enthusiastic 
Toryism which had once been dear to him^“such work 
is debasing. You can’t touch pitch without being defiled. 
A gentleman ought not to have such work to do.” 

‘Tt seems to me, Gerald,” said his uncle, aside, while 
Crossland was making some parting speech to Maude — 
he generally found it convenient to go when Uncle Jack 
came in the room — “you narrow very considerably the 
work which a gentleman may do without compromising 
his dignity. You have already shown in a very practical 
manner some things he may not do.” Gerald colored at 
these words ; he knew exactly what his uncle meant by 
them. “And now to that list you add entering political 
4ife — serving his country in Parliament.” 

“But you must admit, uncle,” said Maude, with a lit- 
tle sigh of relief as the door closed on Crossland, for 
whose prolonged society she had no wish, “a candidate 
may have a great deal of dirty work to do.” 

“If by dirty you mean unpleasant work I freely admit 
it, but he is not obliged to soil either his hands or his 
conscience in doing it. I mean by giving bribes, or mak- 
ing promises which he knows cannot be kept. ” 

There was a pause for a few moments, and then he 
went on in excited tones, almost fancying himself on a 
public platform: “Who ought to help in ruling the des- 
tinies of a great countiy like this? Why, the very best 
men you can find ; the best in every sense of the word. 
The men whose ancestors fought and bled for it, cent- 
uries ago, on many a field of battle ; whose forefathers 
won for us from king and people civil and religious lib- 
erty, who in the great council chambers of the nation 
helped to make by slow degrees that Constitution which 
is perhaps the most perfect the world ever saw ; the men 


A POOR RELATION. 



who helped to give us those wise laws which make and 
keep us great nation. It is the descendants of such 
men as tliese who ought to help in preserving and im- 
proving such a glorious heritage. Who should take their 
share in ruling this country? Why, the men who are 
wisest and cleverest, who are keen-sighted enough to 
discern the evils which oppress certain classes, and un- 
selfish enough to wish to remove them. The men wlio 
have brains, the men who have leisure, and, to put it, 
perhaps selfishly, the men who have the highest inter- 
ests and the best stake in the prosperity of their country. 
For these to stand idly by and leave the work to others 
is to act the part of cowards and traitors, of men who are 
unworth}" the name of Englishmen and patriots.” 

“Bravo! bravo! uncle,” cried Maude, as he paused, 
fairly out of breath with his little oration. “I didn’t 
know you could speak like that. Why, you ought to 
be in Parliament yourself !” 

“Plenty of frothy fools there, as it is, without me,” he 
muttered, as if ashamed of his outburst. “It isn’t al- 
ways the talking man who does the most good in the 
House, or anywhere else.” 

“It is really quite a pity, uncle, that you have but 
such a little stake in the country,” Gerald observed, sar- 
castically, “or you might feel called upon to ofl;er your 
services as a candidate— the Independent candidate for 
the Rushton division.” 

Maude looked reproachfully at her brother ; she was 
ashamed of his rude, ill-natured remark. 

But Uncle Jack, calmly ignoring its tone, merely 
laughed, saying that possibly he might make as good a 
member as many who were aspiring to that position. 

Not long after this conversation he had an opportunity 


124 


A POOR RELATION. 


of airing these and similar opinions in public. The Radical 
member for the division was coming down to address his 
constituents and, as it were, show them his programme 
for the ensuing election. Uncle Jack went to the meet- 
ing, and, on the invitation of some of the committee, 
mounted the platform and took his seat somewhat be- 
hind Mr. Duncan, the M. P. 

The Radical candidate had a most extensive and, as 
some considered, most appetizing bill of fare to set be- 
fore his audience : Disestablishment of the Church ; uni- 
versal suffrage, male and female ; payment of members ; 
reform, if not abolition, of the House of Lords ; triennial 
Parliaments — all these formed items in the political menu. 

Other speakers followed the candidate, most of them 
agreeing completely with their champion. Then, in an- 
swer to repeated cries. Hartley arose. 

He began by saying that as they had expressed a wish 
to hear him, he felt confident that they would listen to 
him patiently, even if they dissented from some of the 
remarks he made. As Liberals they valued, of course, 
liberty of speech, especially on a public platform, at a 
public meeting. 

Then he made a long speech, a discursive speech, and 
what nearly every one in the audience considered a most 
unsatisfactory speech. And, indeed, it pleased but very 
few. The Radicals were disappointed with it because it 
condemned in no halting terms so many of the pet arti- 
cles of their creed. The few Tories present regarded it 
as most revolutionary in its sentiments. It was too Rad- 
ical for some, too Conservative for others. Each party 
regarded the points in which the speaker differed from 
them rather than the points in which he agreed with 
them. Each side danmed it because of its going contrary 


A POOR RELATION. 


i 5 

to some of their views. Both parties considered its de- 
merits far outweighed its merits. No man holding sucli 
opinions could ever be regarded as a good Liberal, so 
said one side. No man with such sentiments could ever 
pretend to pose as a good Conservative, so said the 
other. 

It was plain that a poor Independent had no chance 
of gaining or keeping popularity in Rushton. As, how- 
ever, Hartley cared absolutely nothing for popularity, 
public opinion hurt him but little. Henceforth, how- 
ever, his advocacy was at a discount in the political 
world of Rushton. 

“He’s neither flesh, fish nor fowl,” exclaimed an in- 
dignant Radical, whenever his name was afterward men- 
tioned. “No more of him for me! Why, he’s enough 
to ruin any cause. Fancy a man’s belonging to no side. 
He’s quite a political Ishmael. ” 

But of course there were some good people in Rushton 
and the neighborhood who admired Hartley’s independ- 
ence of thought and expression, men who were weary of 
the clamor of party strife. But such were in an infinites- 
imal minority. 

There was one individual to whom the reading of Hart- 
ley’s speech gave exquisite pleasure, when it appeared in 
the columns of the Rushton and Packlington Advertiser, 
as it was faithfully reported by Jack, who secretl}' de- 
lighted in it. though he fretted a little at its limitations. 
Frank Crossland was, as we have seen, no politician, 
having quite enough to do to look after his own imme- 
diate interests, and personally he regarded the speech as, 
to use his own words, “confounded rot.” But he was 
enraptured ^vith it because of the effect he foresaw it 
vvoTdd probably have in a certain quarter. 


126 


A POOR RELATIOJ^. 


He posted a copy of the newspaper with his own hands 
to Squire Ingham. 

“I wonder what the squire will think of his new ten- 
ant’s political vagaries?” thought he, as he sent off the 
paper. “I rather think there will be a little explosion 
damaging to certain friendships — that is, if I know the 
old squire.” 

Crossland was no false prophet. 

There was an explosion on the squire’s part, after he had 
read the account of the meeting and Hartley’s speech. 
And yet his anger was not unmingled with satisfaction, 
for now he had a good cause for issuing an order which, 
until that moment, he had shrunk from giving. 

“Hartley — Hartley ! who is this Hartley, Eustace?” he 
asked of his son, as they all sat together at breakfast. 
“Is not that the name of the fellow who took Willow 
Cottage, where Betty Jones lived so long?” 

“Yes, I suppose it’s the same name,” answered Eustace, 
greatly dreading, however, what might follow. 

“Then I wish to goodness,” cried his father, furiously, 
“that you would exercise a little more judgment in let- 
ting my property. Pretty idea, having a political fire- 
brand like this pestilent fellow actually living on one’s 
own property ! A nice example to set the other tenants. 
No wonder the country is going to the dogs, when such 
demagogues go spouting about !” 

“My dear father,” said Eustace, “I must repeat what 
I have said to you before on this subject. Nowadays 
people won’t stand any interference with their opinions 
on the part of landlords.” 

“Interference, sir! no, you don’t want to interfere. 
All you have, to sav is : ‘You’re a confounded Radical, 


A POOR RELATION. 


127 


and so you shan’t live on niy property.’ That’s the way 
I used to serve them when they came to me.” 

“Well, just now it is not so easy to get tenants on any 
terms, and if once we begin to draw a line at a man’s 
views, why, we should soon have half the property unlet. ” 

“Unlet!” growled the squire, by no means appeased 
at these words. “If such men as this Hartley get the 
upper hand we shan’t have any property at all, even to 
try and let. What with Radicals, Republicans and So' 
cialists, all preaching the doctrines of spoliation and rob- 
bery, a gentleman won’t be able to call his soul his own 
in a few years.” 

“Well, i)apa,” ventured Kate, “we have had our day, 
and now the people want to have theirs. Their good 
time is coming, thej" think.” 

“My dear Kate, perhaps you will not interfere in mat- 
ters you don’t understand, and — and — Yes, there is an- 
other thing I want to say. Isn’t this Hartley a relation 
of your friends at Ivy Cottage?” 

“Yes, he is their uncle.” 

“Ah! I thought so. Now listen to me, Sophia,” and 
he turned to his wife. “For the future no Hartley ever 
crosses my threshold. Do you understand that?” and 
he looked round at the dismayed faces of his wife and 
children almost in triumph. “No doubt they are all 
tarred with the same brush, and I won’t run the risk of 
having such views taught under my own roof. Do you 
hear, Sophia?” 

“Yes, my dear, but I am sure the young people—” 

“Young people or old people, it makes no difference. 
It was a mistake ever encouraging them. But now there 
shall be an end of it I” and the squire thumped the table 


128 


A POOR RELATION. 

with his fist, making the cups and saucers rattle and the 
spoons jump about. 

There was also another reason for his anger that morn- 
ing. With a general election coming gradually nearer 
his presence would be required at home. He must not 
linger abroad while his friends in the neighborhood of 
Marburn were gallantly fighting for the good old cause. 
He, too, must buckle on his armor and exert all is influ- 
ence on behalf of those principles which had ever been 
dear to the good old family of Ingham, of Marburn Hall. 
So, for the present, retrencliment abroad must be aban- 
doned. At whatever sacrifice he must hurry home and 
do his duty. But having to abandon his present plan did 
not tend to improve his temper. 

Before leaving Switzerland for home Mrs. Ingham sat 
down and wrote a letter to Grace Hartley, in which, as 
kindly and delicately as possible, she stated that the 
friendly intercourse which had existed between them 
must for the future be discontinued. Very briefly she 
explained the^ true cause of her husband’s resentment, 
and threw all the blame on “those horrid politics,’’ 
which were always setting old friends at variance and 
stirring up strife between members of the same family. 
As for herself, she would never forget her friends, even if 
she were unable to welcome them to her house as in bygone 
days. No doubt in time the squire wculd be angry with 
himself for allowing his political views to carry him to 
such lengths, but until then they must rest content with 
feeling that they. were still friends, even if to others they 
might seem estranged, and so on. 

It was a kind letter. And Grace wrote back a kindly 
answer, saying they were both the victims of circum- 
stances. . 


A POOR RELATION. 


129 


But the squire’s prohibition, kindly conveyed though 
it was, produced great consternation at Ivy Cottage. 

Maude was in the depths of secret woe to think of be- 
ing thus deprived of so many opportunities of meeting 
Eustace, whom absence had only made dearer to her lov- 
ing heart. She knew the severance between the Hall 
and Cottage would be a trouble to him as it was to her, 
but he was too good and patient a son to hastily disregard 
liis father’s wishes. He would rather wait and see if 
time would effect some change in his father’s somewhat 
capricious temper. But it would be hard to wait, so near 
each other, and yet so far apart. 

As for Gerald, seeing that this extreme measure, which 
would deprive him of so many enjoyments and cut him 
adrift from Kate Ingham’s society, had been brought 
about by the doings of his uncle, he was more furious 
tlian ever with him, and, if possible, hated him more 
than he had yet done, which was not a little. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

POACHING. 

‘ ‘Sin is not of the spirit, but of that 
Which blindeth spirit, heart and brain.” 

— Bailey’s Festus. 

Shooting was one of Gerald’s accomplishments— one 
of which he was particularly fond and in which he ex- 
celled. As he used to say, every gentleman should be 
able to shoot, whether he owned land or not. For a gen- 


130 


A POOR RELATION. 


tleman must always have friends who could offer him a 
few days among the partridges or pheasants. 

This autumn he found many opportunities for indulg- 
ing in his favorite' sport. Crossland gave him a day oc- 
casionally. And then some of the farmers with whom 
Gerald had struck up at least 'a sporting friendship were 
always ready to oblige him with the offer of a shot at the 
rabbits. For Gerald could make himself very agreeable, 
if he pleased. His handsome face, manly ways and 
keenness after all kinds of outdoor sports helped to make 
him very popular with the farmers round about. So, 
altogether, his gun never had time to groAv rusty. If a 
certain ring that Maude used to wear could have spoken, 
it might have said something as to the means by which 
he obtained his gun license. 

One bright morning, toward the end of September, 
Gerald left home in high spirits. Graliam, one of the 
largest of the squire’s tenant-farmers, had offered him a 
day’s shooting among the partridges. He knew his pro 
pects of a good bag were excellent; he had seen many 
coveys among the farmer’s turnips. 

Squire Ingham had, some time* before, surrendered his 
shooting rights over this large farm, noted for its game. 
But the fact was that, when the fourteen years’ lease on 
which Graham had taken the farm expired, he refused 
to consent to its being renewed unless the shooting in 
future went with the farm. 

^ “You see,” said he to Mr. Briggs, the agent, “I like a 
little shooting myself, and then my lads are growing up, 
and I have friends I like to oblige.” 

“But, my dear sir,” returned the other, '“you do get 
several days, both among the partridges and pheasants. 


A POOR RELATION. 


131 


What more would you have? You can’t expect to be 
favored more than the other tenants.” 

“Well, I don’t want any favors. I Avant a right to 
slioot when I please. I’ll giA^e the squire a fair price for 
his shooting.” 

In fear and trembling the agent made his report to the 
s(|uire. The squire’s reply was more forcible than polite. 

“No, certainly not!” he thundered. “What is the 
world coming to now? Tenants actually dictating to 
owners the terms of their lease ! The right of shooting 
OA’^er the home farm, the very best bit of cover on the 
Avhole estate ! Why doesn’t he ask for the whole place, 
right out?” 

“All riglit.” said Graham, Avho could be as obstinate 
as his landlord, ‘ ' then out I go. ’ ’ And not another Avord 
would he hear. 

Not until he saw the bills announcing the sale of some 
of the stock, produce, etc., did the squire give Avay. 

Mr. Briggs told him he could not afford to lose the very 
best tenant he had eA^er had. Farming Avas bad — farms 
going a-begging. Good tenants Avere scarce. Graham 
took good care of the land, Avorked it on scientific princi- 
ples, never asked for reductions, and so on. 

With a A^ery bad grace, Mr. Ingham yielded. But the 
sore rankled. The home farm became for him quite a 
plague spot in the very midst of his property. 

Gerald enjoyed himself thoroughly. Birds Avere plen- 
tiful, and not too Avild, and the dogs worked beautifully. 
Altogether, he had a right good time. But, alas ! the 
morning Avas not to end as pleasantly as it began. An 
incident happened which was destined to have a very 
marlced infiuence on his future life. 

He was just finishing his modest lunch, in high good 


132 


A POOR RELATION. 


humor with himself and his immediate surroundings, 
including a good bag of birds, when a splendid covey arose 
just a few yards from where he was reclining. Before, 
however, he could get his gun they were out of his reach, 
and, to his intense disappointment, he saw them settle in 
a field just across the boundary line of the home farm — 
that is to say, on Squire Ingham’s property. 

For a few moments the young man stood irresolute at 
the fence which marked off the forbidden territory. 
Then he vaulted lightly over it. 

They were practically Farmer Graham’s birds. It was 
a shame to lose them, so he argued with himself. Yes, 
the temptation was great, and there was a spice of dan- 
ger and excitement in the adventure. Perhaps, too, a 
little element of bravado led him on. It would be good 
fun to steal a march on the squire; after his sudden 
change of front it would be a positive pleasure to have a 
shot at the birds and spoil his sport. 

It was, therefore, with curiously mixed motives that 
the young man stepped on to Squire Ingham’s ground. 
The covey rose again, and this time he was not disap- 
pointed ; at least two birds fell to his shot. In high glee, 
he was putting them in his bag when a well-known 
voice startled him by crying out: ‘'Hullo! you, sir? 
Wliat are you doing there?” 

Looking up, he saw the squire and Watson, the head 
keeper, just emerging from a little spinney lying on the 
left of the field in which he stood. Horrified, he let the 
birds fall from his nerveless grasp, while the color fied 
from his cheeks. He was powerless to move. 

“Oh ! it’s you, is it?” sneered the squire, who was now 
near enough to recognize him. “So poaching is one of 
the accomplishments you have learned from your ‘ Rad- 


A POOR RELATION. 


133 


ical relation,’ is it? But I think you’ll find that game 
isn’t quite as free here as it is in the prairies of America. 
Watson, take those birds, and the gun, too. We must 
teach this young gentleman a lesson ; he’s too proud to 
work, but not too proud to steal, it seems.” And the 
old man uttered the words in a tone of mocking banter. 

Stung by these taunts, Gerald recovered his powers of 
speech. “Here are the birds I shot on your property,” 
he said, throwing them down at the squire’s feet, “the 
others are off the home farm, and let no one try and take 
them from me !” cried he, defiantly, nervously fingering 
the lock of the gun, which he still held in his hand, while 
he shot a furious glance at the squire. 

Watson stood irresolute. He was not afraid of blows 
in the discharge of his duties ; but to try and wrest a 
loaded gun from a man in Gerald’s state of mind seemed 
rather an excess of his legitimate work. As he said to 
himself: “The young varmint looked powerful vicious.” 

But, incensed, and not unnaturally so, as the squire 
was, he had sufficient discretion and self-control not to 
insist on Watson’s carrying out his orders. ' He could see 
that Gerald, carried away by the passion of the moment, 
might, in self-defense, use his gun against the keeper. So 
he called out: “Never mind the other birds, Watson, or 
the gun ; the young gentleman almost seems inclined to 
add murder to poaching.” 

And indeed there was a very dangerous look in Ger- 
ald’s face— the look of a wild animal at bay. Disdaining 
any reply to the squire’s last angry speech, he found, at 
length, words in which to make the best excuse he could 
for “trespassing in pursuit of game,” as the wording of 
lg,w has it. ^*You will allow me to explain, he be- 
gan, in a haughty tone, “that these birds,” and he point- 


134 


A POOR RELATION. 


ed to those lying on the ground, “came from Oral jam’s 
land. ” 

“I don’t care where they came from,” replied tlie 
squire, fiercely. He was by no means mollified by the 
mention of his obstinate tenant’s name. “You are poach- 
ing oji my property. And let me tell you this, young 
man, if it were not for your motlier’s sake I would have 
you prosecuted. But, remember, if ever you are caugiit 
again you shall smart for it, ’ ’ and he shook his stick in 
a threatening manner. “It’s a pretty example to set all 
the vagabonds in the county, you young scoundrel !” It 
may be remarked that the squire was never unpleasantly 
particular in his choice of words. 

“You will repent of this language some day!” cried 
Gerald, almost beside himself with rage, and quite un- 
consciously raising his gun, as the squire, a few minutes 
before, had raised his stick. 

To this threat, or prophecy, whatever its full meaning 
might be — perhaps Gerald himself hardly knew — the 
squire made no reply. , 

“See him off the place, Watson,” said he. Then he 
turned avv’^ay, and once more entered the spinney. 

Without bandying any words with Watson, the young 
man left the two birds on the ground, and, vaulting over 
the fence, found himself once more on the safe “hunting 
ground” of the home farm. 

Watson silently picked up the “spoil,” and then fol- 
lowed his master. But his soul was filled with dismal, 
sorrowful forebodings. “When young gents like Mr. 
Hartley take to poachin’,” he said to himself, “no won- 
der we lies so much trouble with other folks. And if this 
ain’t put down vigorous-like it’ll be ail hup with t’ game. 
But what a vicious young gent ! Threatenin’ the squire 


A POOR RELATION. 


135 


like that ! I be mortal glad I didn’t tackle him ! That 
tliere gun o his might ha’ brought down game as it was 
never meant to shoot !” So there was an element of sat- 
isfaction in the worthy man’s reflections, sad as were 
their general tone. 

Gerald’s sport was over for the day. The scene he had 
just gone through had effectually shattered his nerves. 
After making one or two palpably bad shots, he gave up 
in disgust, saying to himself he couldn’t hit a haystack. 
He therefore moodily walked back to the home farm- 
house, left some of his bag there, and then slowly turned 
his steps toward Ivy Cottage. 

Like many others who have put themselves in a false 
position, Gerald began to cast about for some object, an- 
imate or inanimate, upon whom he might plrce the 
blame really belonging to himself. He had not far to 
seek. Indeed, some of Squire Ingham’s scathing re- 
marks, the very remembrance of which made his ears 
tingle and his pulses throb with passion, suggested the 
cause, more or less direct, of the indignity he had suf- 
fered. Uncle Jack was at the bottom of it. Here was 
another instance of the troubles wrought by that low, 
meddling, unworthy member — alas ! that it should be so 
— of the Hartley family. But for Uncle Jack he might, 
nay, would have had shooting on the squire’s preserves, 
and then no temptation to indulge in illegitimate sport 
would ever have arisen. 

His uncle’s Radical speech at Rushton, filled with tlie 
most revolutionary and inflammatory opinions, had in- 
censed the squire— not unnaturally, Gerald admitted. 
The result was, as he remembered with bitterness of soul, 
that the squire had broken off all intercourse with the 
Hartley family. For the sins of one black sheep all had 


136 


A POOR RELATION. 


to suffer. • And, of course, Mr. Ingham had concluded 
that he himself had become imbued with his uncle’s low 
opinions. In a few words he could have put his little mis- 
take quite right with the squire. If the latter had not 
been so prejudiced against him, his explanation of liow’^ 
he came to be on the wrong side of the fence would have 
settled the matter in two minutes. But his being Uncle 
Jack’s nephew, and therefore presumably under his in- 
fluence, had made all explanations impossible, and the 
result of a moment’s excitement or forgetfulness had 
been made to look like an unpardonable crime. Oh ! it 
was monstrous. Because of Uncle Jack he had suffered 
awful indignities. The grossest insults had been show- 
ered upon him. 

The squire did not escape his share of blame, either. 
However great the provocation, never, never should one 
gentleman have used such language to another. And, 
after all, he was of better birth than the Inghams. But 
he was suffering one of the penalties of being poor. 

Hell was in the young man’s heart as he gloomily 
brooded over his wrongs. Instead of going home he 
turned off toward Rush ton. 

On his arrival there he went into the Golden Fleece 
and tried to drown the remembrance of that morning’s 
scenes in draughts, which at times seem to have the ef- 
fect— though it is but temporary~of the fabled waters of 
Lethe. 

But, even while trying to banish by such means the 
morning’s adventure from his thoughts, he had them 
brought to his ears, garnished, too, with a few startling 
details. Ill news travels apace and loses nothing on the 
road. 

Two men, strangers to him, came into the smoke- 


A POOR RELATION. 137 

room of the little inn. One had evidently just returned 
from some farm on the squire’s property. There he had 
met and held converse with an under-keeper, who had 
told him strange news. The squire and Watson, the head 
keeper, had actually come across a poacher in broad day- 
light, poaching and bagging partridges. The man said 
he had done it “in the most owdacious way. That was 
the rummiest part of the bissniss. The squire orders 
Watson to collar the birds and game. The young gent 
refused to give them up. Swears he’ll slioot Watson if 
he lays a finger on ’em. The squire, naturally-like, 
cusses him awful, and sv-ears he’ll put such a scoundrel 
in jail. The young gent he gets into a rage, and points 
his gun at the squire and threatens to shoot him. For a 
moment Watson thinks there’s going to be bloody work, 
and rushes bold-like up to him. But the* young varmint 
lowers his gun, and then, shaking his fist at the squire, 
tells him he’d better look mit, for he’ll make him repent 
of using such language to a gentleman.” 

Such was the ..ctory — interrupted by exclamations and 
questions on immaterial details, together with refiections 
on the general depravity of human nature from his hear- 
ers— that Gerald had to listen to. It quite sobered him. 
And, with a steady gait, he walked from the room and 
went home. 

The next day he had ample opportunities for discover- 
ing that this version of the story was the only one gen- 
erally accepted as true, both in his own village and in 
the neighborhood generally. 


138 


A POOR KKLATION. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

SQUIRE INGHAM’S RUIN, 

' iil news is wing’d with fate, and flies apace.” 

— Dryden. 

“The wliirligig of time brings in his revenges.” 

—Shakespeare. 

“He that goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing. ” 

— Franklin. 


“Maria, that rumor we heard the other day was quite 
true, it appears,” cried Uncle Jack, bustling into the lit- 
tle dining-room at Ivy Cottage just as the family were 
sitting down to* breakfast, one morning soon after the 
return of the Inghams from the Continent. In his hand 
he lield a copy of the Riishton and Packlington Adver- 
tiser, tlie newspaper which, by carrying faithful reports 
of his speeches to the squire’s ears, had made the breach 
between him and the Hartleys. 

“What rumor, John?” asked his sister. languidly. 
“The air seems full of rumors, generally unpleasant 
ones, too.” 

“ And those are just the ones which turn out to be 
true, are they not, uncle?” cried Maude. But Jack 
never told us anything !” 

“If he had to tell jmu all the contents of the news- 
paper on the staff of which he works, why, he would 
never have done,” said her uncle, laughing. “But as 
the report that Mr. Ingham’s estate is to be sold cannot 
affect any of us personally, we can scarcely call it either 
pleasant or unpleasant news.” 


A POOR RELATION. 


139 


‘‘Oh dear ! How sad ! And yet it serves him right,” 
murmured Mrs. Hartley. “He should not have treated us 
so badly, then I should have sympathized more with him.” 

“Well,” said Uncle Jack, sententiously, “if the good 
old county families won’t take care of their estates they 
must make way for new families that will. In the mean- 
time I shall reserve my sympathy for worthier objects 
than Squire Ingham. If a man will persist in* being a 
fool, v/hy, let the other fools pity him.” 

“ But don’t you feel a little for Mr. Eustace Ingham 
and — and Kate? The old family home will be lost to 
them,” said Grace, looking quite reproachfully at her 
uncle. 

“Yes, Grace,” he replied, thoughtfully, after a pause, 
“ Radical, as people call me. I’ve still got a little room 
left in my heart for sentiment. And I must confess it 
would be a terrible wrer.ch for me, were I in their place, 
to leave the old home of my ancestors. And now, hav- 
ing made this concession to sentiment, let me add, that, 
as matters stand, this compulsory sale will be a good 
thing for Eustace.” 

“A good thing to lose his property !” exclaimed Ger- 
ald. “But I suppose you mean,” he added, with a half- 
veiled sneer, “that now he will have to go and work I 
And if with his hands so much the better.” 

“ My dear Gerald,” replied his uncle-, equably, ignoring 
his nephew’s offensive tone, “ it doesn’t much matter 
what he works with, hands or brain, or both, if only it is 
honest labor he’s engaged in. How often you’ve heard 
me say that.” 

“ A precious sight too often,” grumbled Gfirald to him- 
self. “ That’s a worn-out sermon on a'threadbare text.” 


140 


A POOR RELATION. 


“But what I mean is this,” went on his uncle : “ now 
he will be free — free to go back to his profession.” 

“Yes, and they say he was such a clever barrister,” 
cried Maude, impulsively, hushing crimson, however, as 
she caught her uncle's eye. 

“Was he, my dear? All the more reason, then, tliat he 
should go back to his profession. And I’m quite sure he 
will be much happier in it than in trying to tinker up old 
farm buildings that want pulling to the ground.” 

'“Yes, and slaving away on an estate that belongs 
really to other people,” said Grace, warmly. “I always 
pity him when I see him riding about the estate ; he 
hasn’t the means of doing even half the necessary repairs 
on the place.” 

“But I don’t exactly see why the estate must be sold. 
If they don’t want to sell it, well, why do they sell it?” 
remarked Mrs. Hartley, plaintively, looking up at her 
brother. 

“Unfortunately they, if you mean the Inghams, have 
no choice in the matter,” he replied, with an amused air, 
“ For years they have been practically selling the prop- 
erty bit by bit, and now the purchasers want to have 
their turn. They are going to sell it to some third party. 
Do you understand now, Maria,” he asked, good-nat- 
uredly. 

“No, not exactly,” she replied, shaking her head. 
“Poor Gerald, my husband, always said, you know, that 
I had a soul above mere business matters,” and she 
looked as if she had stated some fact which infinitely re- 
dounded to her credit. > 

“Well, the case is in a nutshell. Some London mer- 
chant, called Sorby, held a big mortgage on the prop, 
erty. II. ‘ is dead ; his money is to be divided among his 


A POOR RELATION. 


141 


heirs. Squire Ingham cannot' pay back the borrowed 
money ; the executors have foreclosed, Hence this com- 
pulsory sale. Now is that quite clear ?” 

“Yes, I think I understand now,” replied Mrs. Hartley’-, 
in dubious tones. 

“ In any case,” went on Uncle Jack, “ the moral of the 
story is quite, quite simple : Take care you don’t inherit 
the family failings with the old family estate. Remem- 
ber that property has its responsibilities as well as its 
privileges. If you’ve got a promising race-horse, shoot 
it. If you feel a gambling fit coming on, get your friends 
to lock you up till it is over. If you are obliged to bor- 
row money, try to pinch and save till you’ve paid it back. 
Live within your means, and, above all, remember that 
idleness is the parent of a numerous and long-lived fam- 
ily of vices.” 

“ My dear uncle, what a sermon !” cried Maude, “and 
what a pity the old squire isn’t here to listen to it !” 

“ Too late ! too late ! my love, to do him any good. In 
fact,” he went on, ruefully, as he perceived his nephew 
had made his escape, “my homily seems altogether out 
of place. Only ladies present ! Well, my tongue will 
run away with me sometimes. Terribly unruly member, 
to be sure !” 

“ I must say that, in spite of his faults, 1 feel sorry for 
the squire,” said Mrs. Hartley. “I know that fc:* one 
thing he is to be greatly pitied,” and she heaved a plaint- 
ive sigh. 

“ Pitied for being a fool, Maria? A willful fool I mean?” 

“No, but for having such a willful, selfish son.” 

“Whatl Is there another son? A prodigal?” cried 
Hartley, in amazement. 

' “ No, John, one of the kind is quite enough,” replied his 


142 


A POOR RELATION. 


sister-in-law, with a dignified air. “lam referring to 
Eustace. He could easily repair the broken fortunes of 
the family, if he were not totally devoid of right feeling/’ 

“Poor Eustace! What, a dreadful character you are 
giving him ! And how I liave been deceived in that 
young man !” and Uncle Jack’s voice seemed full of tender 
pathos. “ But pray enlighten me as to his misdoings.” 

“Misdoings, indeed!” and Mrs. Hartley shook her head 
“ To oppose his father’s wishes so obstinately. He might 
make the most splendid match. Thej’' say Miss Wright, 
of Burton Manor, dotes upon him. She is immenseh’ 
rich, you know, independently of her father. And 
Eustace Ingham won’t even listen to the arrangement 
that the parents propose. Children are so headstrong 
and independent in these days !” and another plaintive 
sigh escaped her breast. 

_ “ Perhaps the poor young man has lost his heart else- 
where,” suggested Mr. Hartley, looking at Maude, who 
turned away her head in confusion as she felt the color 
rise to. her cheeks. 

“If so, that makes the matter worse,” went on Mrs. 
Hartley, with unruffled demeanor. “ Young people should 
learn to control their feelings till their friends can sanc- 
tion their proceedings,” and she looked significantly at 
Grace. 

“Control your fiddlesticks, Maria,” cried Uncle Jack, 
with more force than elegance. “You think the human 
heart is like an engine, and that you can control it as you 
control steam, by simply turning it off or on, just as you 
please. Wouldn’t marry a fortune merely to please his 
father and preserve the old estate, eh? Well, I'm de- 
lighted to hear it. He’s a finer fellow than ever I thought 
him ! Sticks to the other girl, does he? Quite rigid, too. 


A POOR RELATION. 


143 


Fidelity, truth and honesty are worth all th« estates in 
the world.” 

The worthy man knew perfectly well that Mrs. Hart- 
ley’s diatribe was meant partly for Grace, who had not 
sufficiently, she thought, controlled her feelings in the 
past. And he was also convinced that his sister had not 
yet learned the secret, which he himself had found a 
very open one, that Maude and Eustace Ingham were 
not indifferent to one another. 

“ Well, well,” he murmured to himself, “in spite of 
hard and prosaic parents, the age of romance is not quite 
over. But how will all this love-making end, I wonder?” 

As for the Inghams, it was a terrible blow to them 
when they received notice of the intended foreclosure on 
the part of the executors of the late mortgagee of their 
property. But nothing could be done to avert it. At 
such a time, when landed property had depreciated so 
much in value, it was hopeless trying to raise more 
money on the place in order to pay off the original mort- 
gage. No, the whole proper cy must go. 

Although the squire had long foreseen the possibility 
of such a catastrophe, its actual realization was none the 
less appalling to him. He would be the last of the Ing- 
hams of Marburn Hall. For centuries the old stock had 
been planted on the soil; now it was to be rooted up. The 
Inghams had had their day. Strang*ers were about to 
enter into their places. “ Le roi est mort, vive le roi.” 
And the new king might be some low Radical cotton- 
spinner, or iron-master, perchance even a money-lender, 
Jew or Gentile, either would Tje equally loathsome as an 
owner of the estate. 

■While the squire inwardly groaned over the disaster 
which had befallen him, and grimly pictured the new 


144 


A POOR RELATION. 


possessors of his property, it never occurred to him to at- 
tribute any blame to himself for what had happened. No. 
lie was merely the victim of circumstances ; a man to be 
pitied and condoled with, anything but reproached. His 
ruin had come from his walking in the ways of his an- 
cestors and keeping up the old family traditions. But 
certainly a feeling of compunction seized him on think- 
ing of Eustace, who would never have the opportunity 
of proving himself^ a true Ingham. Back he must go to 
the wig and gown in the stuffy law-courts. However, 
his sorrow on that account only lasted a few minutes, 
and was succeeded by bitter anger. 

After all, Eustace deserved no pity. It was entirely 
his own fault that his property was going from him. 
Mar}' Wright, with all her thousands, and broad acres 
to boot, was just ready to throw herself into his arms. 
And the young fool wouldn’t open them ! To all his 
suggestions he maundered on about love and honesty. 
Didin’t love the girl and couldn’t give her what she 
had a right to expect on marrying, and therefore held 
back. Infatuated, obstinate idiot ! So long as the girl 
was satisfied with the bargain, what more was needed? 
Thus the squire cogitated — no doubt delighted to find 
a scapegoat for his own sins. 

With the young people the predominant cause of sor- 
row was leaving the old home — the home of their child- 
hood, the nursery of generations of their race. Every 
stone of the old house was associated with the memory 
of some past ancestor. Every yard of the old-fashioned 
gardens and park was linked with reminiscences of the 
forefathers whose portraits looked down upon tlieir de- 
scendants from the walls of the gallery, corridor or 
dining-room. Even for them another resting-place must 


A POOR RELATION. 


145 


be found, for the rooms in which they had looked down 
so long on the sports of the young ftaghams, or the more 
serious business of their posterity, would soon echo to the 
voice of strangers. 

“Can nothing be done, Eustace, dear?’’ sobbed Kate, as 
the two, sad at heart, slowly paced one of the avenues 
facing the old hall. “Must we really go?’’ • 

“Nothing can be done,’’ replied Eustace, sorrowfully. 
“But we must try and bear the blow patiently, thinking 
of the good times we have had here in our old childisli 
days.’’ 

“And all this should have been yours, Eustace,’’ she 
said, mournfully, pointing with her hand to the fair land- 
scape which lay beyond the avenue. 

“Shall I resolve, like Clive, to win it all back again?” 
he asked, smiling down upon her. 

“Oh, Eustace, how glorious that would be!” she cried, 
clasping her hands in the enthusiasm of the moment. 

“Ah, indeed, Maude, how glorious it would be! 
Even to dream of it seems consoling,” and his eyes 
looked very wistful as lie gazed at the familiar scene. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

, AN UNEXPECTED KINDNESS. 

“To put the power 

* Of sovereign rule into the good man’s hand. 

Is giving peace and happiness to millions.” 

— Thomson. 

In one sense the Inghams would really suffer but little 
by the sale of their property. For years the rents, in- 
stead of enriching them, liad been merely spent in pay- 


146 


A POOR RELATION. 


ing the interests on the mortgages and keeping the estate 
in something like d^ent order— that is, in doing merely 
necessary repairs to the house, cottages and farm build- 
ings. After these expenses were all paid but little re- 
mained for the nominal owners of the property. But 
they lived rent free ; that was something. 

The Hall would, however, pass away from them with 
the land, consequently they would have to look out for 
another home. Birley Court, Mrs. Ingham’s ancestral 
home, was let for a term of years, so that was unavail- 
able. Therefore, some time before the date of the sale 
the squire began to look around for a house, intending, 
should he be unsuccessful in finding what he wanted, to 
go abroad again for a time. But he did not find a suit- 
able house, nor did he, on the other hand, carry out his 
intention of returning to the Continent. A very con- 
siderate offer from the purchaser of the property rendered 
either step unnecessary. 

The sale was held at the Red Lion Hotel at Rushton. 
Tliat is, if you may call that a sale at which nothing is 
sold. For the property did not find a purchaser at the sale. 
No one was prepared to give the reserve price put upon 
it by the executors of the late mortgagee. A few days 
after, however, it transpired that the estate had been sold 
by private contract. But no one knew the name of the 
purchaser. All that even the Rushton and Packlington 
Advertiser could inform its readers was, that Birks & 
Son, a well-known firm of London lawyers, had effected 
the purchase on behalf of one of their clients, who, for 
the present at least, wished his name to remain a secret. 

The squire himself could obtain no information from 
the lawyer, who personally visited him on business at 
the Hall. 


A POCK RELATION. 


147 


“I suppose it’s some confounded money-lender,” 
grumbled Mr. Ingham, when Mr. Birks informed him 
that he was not at liberty to disclose his client’s name. 
“Doesn’t want it to be known how rich he has grown by 
lending money at sixty or a hundred per cent. Or I 
should not wonder if it is some beggarly tradesman or 
other, who wants to get quite clear of the shop before 
settling down as a country gentleman. Perhaps he wants 
a few months’ time in which to pick up some manners 
before he can come and properly ape his betters. ’ ’ 

“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Birks, blandly, ‘‘you are of 
course at liberty to form any conjectures you please as 
to the status of our client, but I think you are a little 
premature in casting reflections on his manners or — ” 

“Want of manners?” suggested the squire, grimly. 

“Exactly so. Just a little premature.” 

“Well, that remains to be seen,” said the other, brusk- 
ly. “But you can tell me, I suppose, when your client 
wishes to obtain possession of the Hall itself. He won t 
turn us out at five minutes’ notice? 

“That’s just the point I wish to discuss with you. The 
fact is we have an offer to make to you on behalf of our 
client. A most liberal offer, too.” 

“Ah, indeed. Money-lenders always do make most 
liberal offers,” remarked the squire, ironically, “^ell, 
pray let me have his idea of a liberal offer. An offer of 
what?” 

“Our client has no imriiediate intention of settling 
down at the Hall, and therefore wishes to find a tenant 
for it. In the meantime, should you feel disposed to re- 
main where you are, say for a couple of years or so, you 
are at liberty to do so. And the rent my client asks for 
the Hall, and all the land adjoining at present unlet. is 


148 


A POOR RELATIO^T. 


what you must consider most reasonable. In fact it is a 
mere nominal sum.” 

“Well, I must admit it is a moderate rent,” conceded 
Squire Ingham, on hearing the sum named. “And, 
upon my word,” he went on, in quite cheerful tones, 
“I’ll agree to it. Of course,” he added, hastily, “all the 
covers are included. I must have the shooting.” 

“Oh, certainly, you have the use of every acre of land 
on the estate that is unlet.” 

“Make out the agreement,” cried the squire, impul- 
sively, “and, I say. I’ll withdraw the remarks I made 
about your clieni:. I don’t care what he is, or how he 
made his money, he’s got some right feeling about 
him.”^ 

The squire’s change of front is only another instance 
of how one’s opinion of a man is largely influenced by 
purely personal considerations. He was acting on the 
old motto, “Speak of people as you find them.” 

He had no scruples about occupying as a mere tenant 
the house which he had always called his own. That 
was quite in keeping with his character. He was gen- 
erally considered an extremely proud man. But then, 
as it has been seen, he was not too proud to keep his 
tradespeople waiting for their money, or too proud to 
fool away his son’s inheritance in pursuit of his own in- 
dulgence. His pride did not prevent his wishing his son 
to marry for money, nor check his feelings of anger when 
that same son declared that even his pride alone would 
effectually debar him from any such course of action. 
In fact the squire’s pride, like that of so many other 
people, was more effective in checking him from grant- 
ing favors than receiving them. A favor offered to him 
seemed a concession to his own dignity ; one granted by 


A POOR RELATION. 


149 


himself seemed conceding too much to the dignity of 
others. 

Whether the squire’s was a proper pride or no, each 
one must decide for himself. His family were delighted 
to hear of the arrangement he had made. 

“Two years more in which to look out for a suitable 
house — how convenient that is !” said Mrs. Ingham. 

“Two years more in the old home! How delightful 
that is !” cried Kate. 

“Two years more with many opportunities in them of 
seeing Maude Hartley — how charming that will be ! ’ ’ 
thought Eustace. For, even when he lived in town for 
the sake of his work he could often run over home to 
see how they were all getting on, and then he could 
meet her. 

None of them felt inclined to resent even for a mo- 
ment the squire’s condescension in accepting a favor 
from a stranger, and the new owner of their old home. 
Personal considerations were not without influence upon 
their judgment. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AN ILL WIND BLOWS GIOOD. 

“It is an ill wind indeed that blows nobody any good.” 

—Old Adage. 

Si^uiRE Ingham’s ruin was not without its influence 
upon the fortunes of others. Human beings are not iso- 
lated units, who live and move and die without touch- 
ing or being touched by the interests and fates of other 
mortals, for there is an intimate connection between one 


15.0 


A 'poor relation. 


individual and another, and the life of one and the lives 
of others, albeit they may be in appearance as far apart 
as the Poles. And to George Turner and Grace Hartley 
the old squire’s monetary losses caused light to spring up 
in the darkness which enshrouded their future pros- 
pects. 

Eustace Ingham had returned to London to take up 
again the broken thread of his life as a barrister. He 
had no thought of consenting to act as agent to the new 
owner of the property, and indeed it was not likely that 
the new man would want him to remain as servant where 
he had been practically master. But as the unknown 
owner evidently did not intend personally to superin- 
tend his new possessions, it was expected at Mar burn 
that some fresh agent would be appointed in Eustace 
Ingham’s place. 

An advertisement which appeared in The Field, and 
other similar journals, effectually put the matter at rest. 
An agent was required for the Marburn Hall property, 
and applicants were desired to communicate with Birks 
& Son, the solicitors, in London, of the new proprietor. 

George Turner saw this advertisement, and immediate- 
ly thought of himself and then of Grace Hartley. For 
of course it would affect both of them, so he hoped, if he 
were to be the successful candidate. Because then Mrs. 
Hartley would surely -withdraw her refusal to their en- 
gagement. 

The young man felt quite elated at the brilliant pros- 
pect which lay before them. But only for a few mo- 
ments. His natural modesty asserted itself and scattered 
many of his new-born hopes. What chance would he 
have among the huge number of men who would be 
sure to apply for the post? Men older and cleverer and 


A POOR RELATION. 


151 


with more experience — and interest, too. Birks & Son 
miglit have clients, perhaps relations of their own, whom 
they could recommend and even intercede for. Moreover, 
the very fact that he was a native of the place might 
prove a serious obstacle to his chances of success. The 
proprietor of the estate might for many reasons prefer 
a man who was a stranger. No, there was only one cir- 
cumstance in his favor, and that was that Eustace Ing- 
liam would testify to his fitness for the post. 

Riding over the farm a few hours after he had seen 
the advertisement, sunk in such reflections, he came 
across* the elder Hartley, fishing in the stream which had 
once proved so nearly fatal to him. 

“Ah! Good - morning, ” shouted George, cheerily. 
“Any sport this morning?” 

Uncle Jack shook his head. “No, they won’t bite a 
bit,” he replied. “I’ve tried them with everything. 
Fish are wonderfully like some people one meets. You 
never know how to take them. But you look rather 
thoughtful this morning. More than ususal, that is,” 
he continued, noticing a dreamy look in the young man’s 
face, as if his thoughts were far removed from the pres- 
ent scene. 

“Do I?” said George, with a smile, “then my looks 
speak the truth this time, at least. But read this,” he 
went on, pulling The Field out of his pocket and hand- 
ing it to Hartley ; “you will see the place I have marked. ” 

“Ah, I see,” remarked the other, after reading the 
place indicated. “Think it will suit?” 

“Oil, it isn’t a question of the place’s suiting me — but 
shall 1 suit the place? That’s quite a different matter.” 

“Well, it won’t do you any harm to try for it,” replied 
Uncle Jack, cheerfully. “You might find that your 


152 


A POOR RELATION. 


qualifications are just what the present owner of Mar- 
burn requires. Of course it is a good thing to be diffi- 
dent, to prevent too much disappointment in case of 
failure ; but if a man hasn’t a little confidence in himself, 
why, he’ll never even think of trying to make a start. 
Why, bless you, out in the States I tried for heaps of 
things, and got them, too, that I didn’t seem to have the 
slightest chance for.” 

“Then you really would advise me to apply to Birks & 
Son for the situation?” 

“Advise you?” replied Uncle Jack heartily, ^‘why, 
man, I should say you were simply a fool if you didn’t. 
You’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain.” And 
he looked significantly at George, who colored vividly, 
knowing exactly what he was thinking about. 

“Yes,” the young man said, “I’ve everything to gain. 
But I’m afraid I could hardly say to these lawyers that 
getting the post might mean, for me, winning a wife 
and gaining a home.” 

^ “No, I’m afraid you could hardly do that,” replied 
Uncle Jack, with a smile; “they might consider pure 
sentiment somewhat out of place in a business matter ! 
But, now, hurry off and write your letter, and let me 
wish you every success. Don’t be afraid of mentioning 
all you know and can do. ” 

' Feeling a little reassured by his friend’s hopefulness, 
George rode off, and duly wrote and dispatched his ap- 
plication. Then he waited for a reply to it as calmly 
as he could. He said nothing about the matter to Grnce, 
fearing that if he were not successful she, too, would be 
disappointed, while, on the other hand, if he should be 
successful what a delightful surprise he would be able 
to give her ! . - . 


A POOR RELATION. 


153 


At the end of a week a letter came from Birks & Son 
requesting liis presence in London. 

George set off feeling very hopeful. This looked most 
promising. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Turner,” said the senior partner 
of the firm, as he was ushered into his private room. 
“I’m glad you have given us such a prompt answer to 
our letter.” 

George replied calmly and collectedly, though he felt 
really much excited. His chances of success seemed 
better than ever. 

“Yes, very glad,” w-ent on Mr. Birks. “for our client 
wants the matter settled as speedily as possible. And 
I may tell you, without any further preliminaries, that 
I am commissioned by him to offer you the.phst. That 
is, if you are satisfied with the stipend, which I may 
state is five hundred pounds a year. ’ ’ 

.“Five hundred a year! At the very utmost George 
had hoped for three. 

“Yes, five hundred a year,” said Mr. Birks, as if in 
answer to his look of surprise. “It is a good deal for 
a comparatively small estate ; but, then, for some time 
there vull be a great deal of work required in putting it 
into thorough order. But I don’t suppose you object to 
the largeness of the stipend.” 

“Not in the slightest,” replied Turner, laughing at the 
idea. “When,” he asked, “can I have an interview with 
the owner of the property to receive his instructions?” 

“Ah, that I can’t say,” replied the other, blandly. “He 
will decide that. At present he wishes his name to re- 
main unknown. We shall receive his instructions -and 
forward them to you. In the meantime we have to ask 
you to set to work at once and make out a detailed list 


154 A- POOR RELATION/ 

• ^ • 
of what improvements you consider are immediately 
required on the property. At any time you can com- 
municate with our client through us. I think that is 
all that remains to be said at present.” And here Mr. 
Birks’s manner seemed to indicate that the interview 
might be concluded. 

George went home feeling delighted with the result 
of his journey, but also extremely bewildered. An un- 
known employer, almost unlimited discretion as to what 
he should do, and, to crown all, a larger stipend than he 
had ever even hoped for. It was evident that the new 
owner of Mar burn was as eccentric as he was wealthy 
and generous. But these qualities had brought George, as 
he hoped, within reasonable distance of his life’s happi- 
ness — a hdme of his own shared with Grace Hartley. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A JOYFUL SURPRISE. 

“And words of true love passed from tongue to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough to another.” 

—Longfellow. The Spanish Student. 

“Wish me joy, Mr. Hartley, ” cried George, enthusias- 
tically, rushing most unceremoniously into the little sit- 
ting-room, where his friend sat enjoying his frugal 
supper, “wish me joy! I’ve got the appointment after 
all,’.’ and in the excitement of the moment he vigorously 
shook Hartley’s hand. 

* • “Have you?” cried Uncle Jack, heartily returning his 


A POOR RELATION. 


155 


grasp, “then I do wish you joy with all my heart. Ah, 
what a thing it is to be young,” he went on, somewhat 
pensively, “and to be able to feel as keenly and express 
your feelings as freely as you do. Such moments as 
these can never come to battered out old hacks like me !” 

“What!” cried George, “you past feeling? Why, you 
look just as pleased as I feel.” 

“Do I?” said Uncle Jack, in dubious tones. “Well, 
if you don’t think that is one the signs of second child- 
hood, Fill glad of it.” 

'"You talk of second childhood ! Why, you don’t look 
more than fifty ! But you haven’t asked me anything 
about my visit and its results. ’ ’ 

“No, of course not. I haven’t had time yet !” cried 
the other, laughing. “But now tell me all about it.” 

George detailed the full history of his experiences in 
London, to all which his friend listened with great satis- 
faction. 

“And what is your first step to be now?” asked Hartley, 
when he had heard all. ' 

“Can you ask that question seriously?” replied George, 
with a significant smile and look. “My first proceeding 
to-morrow will be to go and have an interview with Mrs. 
Hartley, and I can only trust that I shall be as successful 
then as I have been to-day. If I am not I shall care very 
little about what has just happened.” ' 

“Well, in this matter, too, let me wish you every sue- 
cess, ’ ’ said Uncle Jack, heartily ; ‘ ‘for every reason I shall 
be proud to acknowledge and welcome you as a nephew. ” 
And once more he w'rung the young man’s hand. “And 
I trust,” he went on, “that you and Grace will enjoy a 
long life of happiness together.” 

So, the next day, as early as was consistent with the 


156 


A POOR RELATION. 


laws of household convenience, George Turner paid a 
visit to Mrs. Hartley. He was glad to find her alone. 

Mrs. Hartley, on his entering her sitting-room, did not 
express her sense of happiness at seeing him. In the 
case of many visitors doubtless the expression, “I’m so 
pleased to see you, ’ ’ was with her a mere passing form, 
the barest expression of a formal politeness. In this 
instance she had no hesitation in dispensing with it. 
Nor did she go through the other formality of offering 
him her hand. 

A cold/ ‘Good-morning” came from her lips, while her 
looks seemed to say: “Now, I wonder what you, of all 
people, want here?” 

She motioned George to a seat. He took it, and for 
a moment or two there was silence between them. Mrs. 
Hartley’s stony gaze was not calculated to allay the 
young man’s anxiety about the issues of this important 
interview. • 

. At length George said in his own quiet, self-possessed 
way: “I have called, Mrs. Hartley, once more to ask you 
to give your consent to my engagement with Grace— Miss 
Hartley?” 

“I thought that question was settled, once for aH, the 
last time you asked my consent,” replied Mrs. Hartley, 
icily, drawing herself up in a most dignified manner. 
“You confessed then that you had no home to offer a wife, 
and I am not aware that even now you are more favorably 
circumstanced in that respect.” 

“No, I certainly have not a home yet,” began 
George. 

“Then why seek this interview, which cannot end 
pleasantly for — for either of us?” 


A POOR RELATION. 


157 


“Because I should like to consult Miss Hartley about 
the choice of one,” replied George. 

Mrs. Hartley looked at him in astonishment. There 
was a certain tone of triumph in his manner, as if he 
had no reason to doubt her consent. She began to thaw 
a little. Was it possible that some change had taken 
place in his fortunes? She knew he was considered ex- 
tremely clever. Perhaps from a worldly point of view 
it might not prove such a bad match for Grace after all. 
As to his birth — nothing could alter that ! But in these 
days money would, in the eyes of most people, live down 
even the defect of lowly birth. Such thoughts as these 
rendered her tone a little more amiable as she asked: 
“Tlien am I to assume, Mr. Turner, that you are now in 
a position to offer a home, a suitable home,” and she em- 
phasized 'the word, “to my daughter?” 

“I hope both you and she will think it suitable, ”' replied 
George. “The fact is, Mrs. Hartley,” he went on, “I 
have been offered the agency of the Marburn property, 
at a salary of five hundred a year. 

The truth was out at last, and Mrs. Hartley heard it 
with pleased amazement. Naturally amiable, she had 
not at all liked having to cause Grace such unhappiness 
as she was well aware her refusal to sanction the engage- 
ment had done, and now she was pleased to tliink that 
the necessity for it was over. 

“Five hundred a year, Mr. Turner!” she cried. “Oh, 
I think you ought to keep up a very nice home indeed 
on that sum,” and her face grew as radiant as'her voice 
was exultant. The rejected suitor would make a most 
eligible son-in-law, after all. A nice home indeed! 
Why, she had to try and make one look nice on con- 


158 


A POOR RELATION. 


siderably less tlian a third of that sum! How happy 
dear Grace would be ! 

“Then you give your consent, dear Mrs. Hartley?” 
said George, emboldened by her change of manner. 

“Oh, most decidedly. You know I always liked you, 
Mr. Turner— let me say George now,” and she smiled 
kindly on her future son-in-law. “But you understand : 
a mother must be most careful where the future happi- 
ness of her child is concerned. And your prospects -were 
most uncertain, you must admit that?” 

George ^^'as so happy he would have admitted almost 
anything against himself. At the same time he never 
could forget that she had seemed to him unnecessarily 
harsh in forbidding their engagement at all, and he could 
not honestly have reciprocated. Mrs. Hartley’s compli- 
ment to himself by saying that he had always liked her. 
She had many little traits of character which jarred 
upon him. But then, as he had no wish to marry her, 
these defects of disposition and manner could hardly be 
said to affect him personally. And to every thoughtful, 
right-minded man the fact that a girl does not share her 
mother’s failings must rather enhance her own charms 
in his eyes. Of course it may be said that, having the 
mother before his eyes as an example, he may rather 
dread lest the daughter in time may grow like her. 
But then he must consider that the child is mother of 
the woman, and that time will rather tend to ripen the 
charms and graces of a sweet maidenhood tlian sow the 
seeds of defects which shall come to maturity in middle 
or old age. Faith and trust are cardinal articles in the 
lover’s creed. 

George Turner was convinced that Grace would be al- 
ways charming. 


A POOR RELATION, 


159 


In r^ply to Mrs. Hartley’s insinuation he admitted the 
soft impeachment, and then, not wishing to enter into a 
discussion about the past, he asked whether he could see 
Grace. 

For he was eager to enter the paradise which had so 
suddenly been opened to him. 

"‘Grace is not in, I am sorry to say,” replied Mrs. 
Hartley; “she has gone across the fields to Rushton. 
But will you wait till she returns? I expect her back 
in half an hour at the very latest. ’ ’ 

George preferred not to wait. The truth was, he in- 
tended to go and meet her. Accordingly, having said 
all that an accepted suitor should say under the cir- 
cumstances to his future mother-in-law., he took his 
leave. 

Meantime Grace was returning home from Rushton. 
She had been to, see about some work, and was feeling 
a little troubled about the small, uncertain payments she 
received for a large amount of sewing. Was it to be al- 
ways thus? Was her youth to pass in this way? Was 
she to have none of the happiness which seemed to come 
so abundantly into the lives of other girls? High motives 
had made her take up the lowly work, but all the same 
it was none the less irksome to her. She had been to see’ 
a rich shopkeeper’s* wife, who, having seen her advertise- 
ment, had written to ask, nay, rather to demand, a per- 
sonal interview before intrusting some dresses to her to 
be made.* Grace obtained the work, but on lower terms 
than she liked, and was feeling pained not a little by the 
way in which the other had, as she would have expressed 
it, “beaten her down. ” 

Being tired, as she drew near the bridge so well re- 
membered by Uncle Jack, that had now, of course, been 


*160 


A POOR RELATION. 

repaired, she sat down to rest for a few moments on the 
trunk of a huge oak which, lately felled, lay prostrate 
but a few yards from the narrow patli. It was a w^arm 
spring day, and the hum of insects, the murmur of the 
purling brook, the song of the lark overhead, the tender 
chant of the blackbird, coming from some neighboring 
thicket, and the distant lowing of the cows — all these 
blended together into one harmonious melody, which 
in a few short moments lulled the weary girl’s senses to 
sleep. 

But her light slumber was soon disturbed, rudely and 
outrageously, by the pressure of a strong arm around 
her slender waist. Hardly had she awoke to the realiza- 
tion of this astounding fact, and before her maidenly in- 
stincts, thus rudely shocked, could resent it, she felt on 
her cheek the pressure of a pair of lips. 

Confused, indignant, a vivid, burning blush of maidenly 
shame overmantling her cheeks, she tried to rise, but could 
not, and then, swiftly turning, she found herself .in the 
arms of George Turner. 

“Forgive me, dearest,” he whispered, gently, “but the 
temptation was too great. ” • 

“George, how dare you?” she began, indignantly. Then, 
as the lover’s overcame the maiden’s feelings, she went 
on more gently: “Oh, how could you make me break the 
promise I made mother?” And then the hot tears began 
to stream down her cheeks. * . • 

“But, Grace, love, listen' to me. I did it with your 
mother’s full consent. She gave me permission to — 
to—” 

“No, George, surely not to do all you have done,” and 
she lifted her eyes shyly to his, while the color' flew once 


A POOR RELATION. 


161 


more to her face as she remembered what the all im- 
plied. 

“Yes, dearest, all, I think. For she has consented to 
our engagement. ” ^ 

The girl felt very happy, as, once more, she felt her- 
self clasped in her lover’s arms, while his lips pressed 
her cheeks and brow, and, there and then, her lips. 

That seemed to her the solemn seal before Heaven of 
their betrothal. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

AN UNFORTUNATE SHOT. 

“How oft the sight means to do ill deeds. 

Makes ill deeds done !” 

— Shakespeare. 

The sluggishness of the little river Lent rendered it 
admirably adapted for an extensive growth of choice 
weeds, the haunts of countless huge and voracious pike. 
At certain seasons, too, wild duck found these said weeds 
a very happy feeding ground. • 

Gerald Hartley, who cared much more for sport than 
for work, spent many hours a day on the banks of the 
Lent, or even on its surface, in a flat-bottom boat, or 
punt. In the winter months, especially, pike fishing or 
wild-duck shooting made him a frequent visitor to the 
slow-running stream, from which he seldom returned 
empty-handed. Occasionally, too, when the moon was 
up, he got good sport among the wild duck at night- 
time. ^ 


1G2 


A POOR RELATION. 


Toward the middle of November, just at the period of 
full moon, he made all the arrangements for such a moon- 
light'expedition. But alas for his hopes ! The night set 
in stormy; the moon was shut in by layers of dense 
clouds which effectually quenched its silvery beams. 
After waiting till eleven o’clock, Gerald went up to his 
room in disgust ; the night seemed blacker than ever. 

But he had scarcely begun to undress when the clouds 
dispersed and the moon shone forth in all her splendor. 
Hastily putting on his coat again, he went downstairs, 
seized his gun, called his dog, and. noiselessly leaving 
the house, set off in high spirits tow^ard the Lent. 

He did not, however, go unperceived. For Maude 
heard him leave his room and descend the stairs. She 
knew and dreaded the reason of this alteration in his 
plans ; for she had a perfect horror of these night ex- 
cursions, especially after his fracas with Mr. Ingham. 
At any time he might meet the latter’s keepers on his 
way to the Lent, for the nearest way ran through the 
squire’s fields. He would be sure to take that way. 
She imagined the most appalling consequences would 
follow such a meeting between Gerald and the keepers. 
But her remonstrances had always been in vain. He 
laughed at her fears, or, perchance, bruskly told her 
to mind her own business. 

Noiselessly leaving the room, she went to the head of 
the stairs. Her fears were well grounded. B}- the light 
of the hall lamp, which he had lighted, she saw him, fully 
equipped for a shooting expedition, leave the dining- 
room. Having extinguished the lamp, he next opened 
the front door and went out. His sister heard a few 
liasty steps on the graveled walk, and he was gone. 

Sorrowfully, her mind full of dim, anxious forebod- 


A POOR RELATION. 


163 


ings, she went back to her room. But not to sleep. 
That was out of the question, till she knew that he had 
returned safe and sound. Several times before she had 
waited up in this way, watching for his return. And 
often, during the silent night watches, she had sighed to 
herself: “Oh, how I wish Gerald were half as eager in 
finding something to work at as he is in getting a little 
sport!” 

She had, however, one consolation. Neither Grace, 
who was working so bravely for them all, or her mother, 
who was in such delicate health, shared her knowledge 
of these midnight excursions, for their rooms were at the 
other side of the house. As for Jack, whose bedroom was 
next to Gerald’s, when he was up he was so absorbed in 
his work, and when he was in bed he was so sound 
asleep, after his hard toil, that he never heard anything 
that passed. 

And now, full of glee at the prospect of some good sport 
among the ducks, Gerald pursued his way toward the 
Lent, taking as usual the shortest cut, just as Maude 
feared. However, he arrived at his destination without 
let or hindrance. But so far as getting any wild ducks 
was concerned, he had his journey all for nothing. 
There were ducks about, it was true. He could hear 
them quacking; yet always, it seemed 'to him, in the 
far distance. Some indeed he saw, but generally they 
were far out of his reach. Two or three he brought down 
after a long time of weary waiting, but his dog, clever as 
he was, proved unable to find them. Then the night grew 
dark again, thick clouds gradually spread over the moon, 
apparently for the night. Finally, after two hours’ pad- 
dling about in the wet grass, or among the still wetter 
reeds, in despair he determined to go home. 


164 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Just like my usual luck,” he grumbled. “All this 
way for nothing. And just listen to that! Heaps of 
birds about. But it’s no use waiting any longer in this 
darkness; j^ou might as well try and shoot in a well.” 

So in a rage, tired, wet and disappointed, he set off 
home again. 

As he crossed the fields he had to pass by a small plan- 
tation of larches, which, as he well knew, was fhe fa- 
vorite roosting-place of some of the squire’s pheasants. 
Many a time, when on similar excursions, he had heard 
them crying to one another from the boughs of the 
larches, nay, once or twice, in the clear moonlight, he 
had seen them apparently packed quite tight on the 
lower branches of the trees they had chosen for their 
night’s rest. 

How often had he longed for just one shot! One 
would do plenty of execution, so thick together they 
seemed to be perching. But, hitherto, prudence had 
always kept him back. Unseen by him, some keeper 
might be quite close by. To be caught would be too 
disgraceful. Since his “row,” as he termed it, with 
Squire Ingham, however, having a shot at these par- 
ticular pheasants had seemed one of the stolen pleas- 
ures which had grown immeasurably sweeter. On 
this evening, Huitless so far in spoil, as he passed 
close by the fence M^hich surrounded the plantation, 
the desire of indulging in the forbidden pleasure came 
upon him with stronger force than ever. And, as if 
to tantalize him, as he stood leaning over the fence, 
the moon came out again in all her splendor, plainly 
revealing, in sharp outline, the outer edge and the lower 
branches of the larch trees. 

Surely, that was a cock-pheasant in the middle of that 


A POOR RELATION. 


165 


branch. Nothing but its plumage could sparkle thus in 
the moonlight. Yes, it was, and there was another, and 
another ! 

Gerald looked round. Behind him the coast was clear. 
Almost involuntarily his gun went up to his shoulder. 
He pressed the trigger. A report appallingly loud in 
the stillness of the night woke the echoes all around. 
The startled cries of the birds were to be heard in all 
directions as they darted in amazement from their 
roosting-places. And, above all— yes, there was no doubt 
of it — the shriek of some human being as if in pain. 

Gerald hastily mounted the fence and peered over 
the narrow strip of field which stretched across to the 
plantation. 

Yes, there was a man; and he was running in his 
direction. He had fired too low, and wounded some 
keeper who was lying concealed just outside the plan- 
tation. The other man was his companion, in pursuit 
of the poacher — himself ! 

Horror-struck at these terrible, unforeseen consequences 
of his shot, Gerald took to instant flight— a hasty glance 
backward, as he did so, revealing the fact that he was 
followed by the keeper. 

This sight doubled his speed. To be arrested as a 
poacher, after having wounded— wounded? nay, perhaps 
killed— a keeper, seemed a calamity overwhelming in 
its consequences. 

But misfortunes seemed to accumulate. The moon once 
more became overcast with clouds. The young man lost 
the path, once or twice ran into a hedge, tearing his 
clothes and receiving numerous wounds on the face and 
hands from the thorns. Finally, he stumbled and fell 
heavily to the ground. As he did so his gun fell from 


166 


A POOR RELATION. 


his nerveless grasp. In vain did he try to recover H, all 
his groping was futile. And the moon refused to show 
one faint gleam of light. 

Muttering a cry of mingled despair and rage, he at 
length left off attempting to try and recover his gun. 
He must escape at all cost. Rising from the ground once 
more, he took to his heels, almost fancying he could hear 
the steps of his pursuers quite close to him. 

For a moment the moon showed a ray of light, and he 
looked back. No, the keeper was standing just where 
he had lost his gun ! 

Horrible sight ! For he might now stumble across the 
fatal weapon — fatal in another sense, for on it was 
legibly engraved his own name. 

But to linger was dangerous ; he dare not run the risk 
of being recognized by the keeper. His gun might be 
undiscovered among the long grass, and in the morning, 
before others were stirring, he would come and search 
for it. So, without further delay, once more he began 
to hurry tovv'ard home with all possible speed. 


A POOR RELATION. 


167 


• CHAPTER XXII. 

MAUDE’S GREAT ALARM. 

• “ Alas, the world is full of peril ! 

The path that runs through the fairest meads, 

On the sunniest side of the valley, leads 
Into a region bleak and sterile ! 

Alike in the high-born and the lowly, 

The will is feeble and passion strong.” 

—Longfellow. 21ie Golden Legend, 

“Oh ! thank Heaven, Gerald, dear, you’ve got back 
safely,” cried Maude, rushing to the door when she 
heard the sound of his latch-key in it. “I heard you go 
out, and I couldn’t rest. I imagined all sorts of dreadful 
things were happening to you. Why, how wet you are !” 
she cried, as she laid her hand on his arm. “Do make 
haste and take off your things,” and she led him into 
the dining-room. • 

“Gerald, what has happened?” she almost shrieked, in 
her horror, as the light of the lamp fell on him. “You 
are covered with blood, and your coat is all rags, and — 
and — ” she could say no more, but sank trembling on the 
sofa. 

Her brother indeed looked a pitiable object. The blood 
from his face and hands had stained his clothes here and 
there, and they were full of rents and covered with mud, 
some of which was partly dried and still standing out in 
wet, filthy blotches. From his boots drops of water kept 
oozing out upon the carpet. And, except where the 
bloodstains and scars appeared, his face was deadly 


168 


A POOR RELATION. 


pale. His hat was gone, and liis dark hair, in tangled 
masses, came over his forehead. 

Maude looked at him in horror. “Where is your 
gun?” she cried, at length, as a sudden thought flaslied 
across her mind. 

“Give me some brandy,” said Gerald, hoarsely, “I 
can’t speak plainly yet. Ah, that’s better. I was* al- 
most fainting.” 

Maude waited in anxious excitement for a few mo- 
ments. while her brother sat with downcast head 
moodily gazing into the grate. 

“I’ve made a mess of it this time, Maude,” he said, at 
last, without raising his eyes toward her. 

“Oh, Vhat — what has happened, Gerald?” she whis- 
pered, faintly, for she was filled with a thousand vague 
alarms, and dreaded the very vrorst. 

“I’ve shot somebody — ” 

“Shot somebodj^,” groaned Maude, clasping her hands 
in despair, while all the color left her cheeks and her 
heart almost ceased to beat, in her great terror — “not — 
not — oh, surely not on purpose! Don’t say that,” and 
a look of pathetic entreaty came into her lovely eyes as 
she fixed them on him, as if she would read the truth in 
his terrified face. Breathless!}’’ she waited for his an- 
swer. 

“No, Maudie, not quite so bad as that. I didn’t mean 
to do it. It was quite an accident,” he said. 

“Oh, thank Heaven for that!” cried Maude, fervently. 

“Yes, it was the purest accident,” said Gerald, and 
then he briefly described to her the events of the past 
few hours. 

“Oh, Gerald,” exclaimed Maude, when he had finished 


A POOR RELATION. 


ir,9 

his painful story, “if — if only you had come straight 
home without lingering near the forbidden ground!” 

. “Ah, Maude, if — that’s where it is I There is always 
an ‘if’ !” 

“Well, I trust we shall hear in the morning that the 
poor man you wounded has merely received the slight- 
est injury,” said Maude, endeavoring to look at the 
brightest side. “And now I think we had better go 
to bed. Some of the others might awake and hear our 
voices. For every reason it will be better to keep this 
to ourselves.” 

“Ay, as long as we can,” replied Gerald, significantly, 
fervently hoping that his secret might not become public 
property. 

Then they went upstairs, but not to sleep ; dread fore- 
bodings of what they might hear in the morning effectu- 
ally prevented their gaining the brief respite from anxiety 
which the oblivion of sleep affords. 

The shadow of the future hung dark over each moment 
of the present. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTA^X‘ES. 

“ At the devil’s boot are all things sold. 

Each ounce of dress costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and ball our lives we x'ay, 

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking — ” 

— J. G. Whittier. The Vinon of Sir Launfal. 

Gerald liad not reached Ivy Cottage, early morning 
as it was, without having been observed and recognized 
by at least two unseen witnesses. 


170 


A POOR RELATION. 


It happened that one of Mr. Crossland’s hunters had 
been taken ill during the preceding afternoon. As it 
was a very valuable mare its owner had immediately 
sent for the veterinary surgeon, who pronounced that the 
animal was suffering from a severe chill. After pre- 
scribing certain remedies the man left, promising to 
return the next day. 

But Crossland’s anxiety for the safety of the mare kept 
him awake till past midnight. Then he got up and went 
down to the stables to ascertain from his head groom how 
Belinda was getting on. 

Much relieved to find she was progressing favorably, 
he lit a cigar, and, accompanied by his groom, strolled 
across the stable-yard toward a gate which opened into 
a field. For some time they both stood looking over 
the landscape, now flooded with a stream of silvery 
light. • 

Suddenly, just as the clock in the turret-tower of the 
old courtyard was striking three, the groom, pointing 
with his finger straight before him, cried out : “Why, look 
there, sir! Blest if I don’t think that be Mr. Gerald 
Hartley!” 

“Is it?” replied his master, quietly, peering in the di- 
rection indicated. “Ah, it does look like Mr. Hartley. 
Been taking a.moonlight stroll, I shouldn’t wonder.” 

Wearied by the excitement of having been chased and 
the fatigue of his run, Gerald was now walking leisurely 
along, betraying no signs of having passed through any- 
thing extraordinary. In a few moments he disappeared 
in the direction of his home. 

“Grimes, I tliink you had better go back to the stable,” 
remarked his master, after a brief interval of silence. 
“I shall be off to bed again. But mind, if any change for 


A POOR RELATION. 


171 


the worse takes place you must let me know at 
once.” 

“All right, sir,” replied Grimes. “You won’t get much 
sleep before daylight. ’ ’ 

“No; but I don’t mind that so long as the mare keeps 
better.” 

Crossland was just about to leave the stable-yard when 
his eye caught sight of another figure hastily proceeding 
in the direction previously taken by Gerald. 

“Ah, who’s that, I wonder?” he said to himself. “Why, 

I declare the place is quite lively to-night. Somebody’s 
been among the birds. I must look into this.” 

Just then the moon became overcast, and he was unable 
to distinguish even the form of the unknown wanderer. 

Muttering a few angry words at the disappearance of 
the light, Crossland turned away toward the house. 
Then, rushing indooi's, he seized a revolver from his 
gunroom, and, by a circuitous path, managed to in- 
tercept his man just as he was crossing the stile lead- 
ing from the field into the high road. 

“Hullo! what are you up to?” shouted he, roughly 
seizing the man by the arm. 

“What’s that to you?” the man muttered, shaking 
himself loose, and, raising his stick, he held it as if 
about to strike. “Can’t a peaceable hindividooal take 
a hevening stroll without being molested? What’s your 
little game?” 

“Oh, it’s you. Sikes, is it?” replied Crossland, quietly, 
pointing his pistol quite close to the other’s head. 

“Law, squire, be that yew?” replied Sikes, in a tone 
of pretended surprise. 

“Whv, of course it is, you fool. You knew that all 


172 


A POOR RELATION. 


along. And now what’s your game? Here, come with 
me,” and he led him into the house. 

“Now, let’s see what you’ve got on,” he went on, stern- 
ly, when they were indoors and the man stood in full 
light of the hall lamp. “Any of my pheasants?” 

Slowly and sadly Mr. Sikes produced a couple of 
rabbits and a brace of pheasants from his capacious 
pockets. 

“They baint yourn, raly, squire,” protested he, 
eagerly. • 

“I shall take the liberty of keeping them at any rate,” 
replied Crossland, coolly. “And now where’s your gun?” 
he added. “Bring it out.” 

“Gun, squire!” feebly protested Mr. Sikes; ^‘why, you 
see I ain’t got no gun,” and he shook his hands to show 
tha,t he was holding nothing. • 

“Now then make haste,” Crossland went on, sternly, 
growing impatient. 

“Don’t be too hard on a hindivudooal, ” whimpered 
Sikes, as from the lining of his, coat he produced the 
various parts of his gun. 

“No, I’ll leave that to the magistrates,” replied Cross- 
land. “And now, Mr. Sikes, let me show you off the 
premises.” 

“Well, I ain’t the only one what’s been having a little 
sport to-night,” protested the poacher, in injured tones. 

Another cove’s been out, too, but I s’pose cos he’s a 
gennleman there bain’t no law for ’e.” 

“A gentleman out poaching! Rubbish!” said Cross- 
land, contemptuously, as he eggerly scanned the man’s 
features. 

“Ah, a, gennleman!” persisted Sikes, stoutly, “an’ if 
you’d been at that ther’ gate a few minutes afore you’d 


A POOR RELATION. 


173 


'a ketclied ’im, too ; a friend of yourn, Mr. Gerald Hart- 
ley.” 

“There, that will do, Sikes. Lies won’t improve your 
case. Perhaps you will say next that you met Squire 
Ingham or the vicar netting rabbits in my warren. Now, 
be off till to-morrow.” 

Mr. Sikes withdrew, loudly protesting against his hard 
fate compared with that of others, and exclaiming as a 
parting shot; “If you don’t believe a ’onest man’s words 
just you take a herly walk, squire, toward Marden Spin- 
ney, and, likely as not, you’ll come across that ’ere gennle- 
man’s gun. I owes him a grudge, I does.” 

He put his hand to his shoulder, and seemed to hold it 
as he went away, and Crossland wondered for a moment 
if he had been hurt in any way. 

Crossland was up early the next morning, in spite of 
having retired at such an unusual hour. Anxiety for his 
hunter had made him restless, and the little sleep he got 
was of a very fitful character. Then his encounter with 
Sikes kept recurring to his mind even in his dreams. 
Altogether he was glad when the first rays of daylight 
penetrated to his room. 

His first visit was paid to the stables. Happily, Belinda 
had passed a better night than her master. 

“Wonnerful lot better, sir, this morning,” said the 
groom. “Ain’t the same hoss she was last night. I 
raly think she’ll pull through fust rate.” 

“She certainly is better,” said Crossland, after he had 
examined her. “The medicine and sleep together have 
made a wonderful improvement in her.” And, feeling 
intensely relieved, he prepared to leave the stable for the 
breakfast-room. 

“Dreadful thing happened last night, or rather this 


174 


A POOR RELATION. 


morning, sir. Bat perhaps you’ve heard it already?” 
remarked the groom. 

“No, I’ve heard nothing. Grimes. What is this dread- 
ful thing?” And Crossland looked inquiringly at him. 

“Squire Ingham’s been shot last, night in Marden 
Spinney,” answered the man, laconically. 

“Squire Ingham shot! No, really, is that the truth?” 
cried Crossland, in amazement, startled for the moment 
out of his usual phlegmatic manner. 

“Yes, sir, quite true, sir,” affirmed Grimes, confidently. 
“One of the underkeepers, young Bird, was round here 
on his way to Rushton, not half an hour ago. Squire 
very bad indeed. ’ ’ 

“How very shocking!” said Crossland. “Severely 
wounded, too? How did it happen? Accident? Poach- 
ers? Or what?” 

“Well, sir, young Bird did say as how they think it be 
poachers ; ’an there be a howdacious lot o’ them varmint 
roun’ about her, surelie.” And the virtuous Grimes’s 
voice took a tone of holy indignation. “By-the-by, sir,” 
he added, after a few moments apparently spent in deep 
reflection, “rayther curious that Mr. Gerald Hartley 
should be a-comin’ about that time this mornin’ straight 
from Marden Spinney ; leastways from that direction. I 
wonder whether he saw anything out o’ the common.” 

Crossland cast a keen, searching look at Grimes as he 
uttered these words. Was the man insinuating anything 
against Gerald Plartley, or was his remark a purely 
simple and innocent one, with all its meaning quite on 
the surface? 

But nothing was to be gathered from the man’s face. 
It was totally guiltless of any unusual expression. In 
fact it might have been carved in wood, except for th| 


A POOR RELATION. 


175 


twinkle in liis eyes. But then they always seemed to 
twinkle. 

“Well, if Mr. Hartley saw anything,” said Crossland, 
“I daresay he will say something. Don’t forget,” he 
added, as he left the stable, “to send a boy over to the 
Hall to ask, with my compliments, how Mr. Ingham is. 
Let him go before noon.” 

Grimes’s apparently innocent remark had opened be- 
fore Crossland a wide field for conjecture. Had Gerald 
Hartley been in Marden Spinney that morning? If so, 
what was he doing there? Or, perhaps, he was only 
passing it on his way to the Lent after some wild-duck 
shooting? But then he had had no gun with him. In 
the bright moonlight that was easy to be seen. And 
then Sikes’s remarks that Gerald Hartley had been 
poaching as well as himself, and that his gun might 
be “come across” if he took a “herly walk toward 
Marden Spinney,” recurred to his mind. 

He did not spend much time over his breakfast that 
morning. Every minute was precious just then. The 
air was full of mysteries. Squire Ingham shot by 
some one unknown; Gerald Hartley out poaching by 
night near that same Marden Spinney. His returning 
home about three o’clock in the morning in such a state 
of mind as to make him leave his gun behind him. What 
did it all mean? 

Crossland, as well as nearly every one in the village, 
had heard the story of Gerald’s having threatened to 
shoot the squire a month or two before. 

Drawing on his boots, and without giving himself time 
to go upstairs to see his mother, who breakfasted in her 
own room, and who would probably fret all the morning 
at this neglect on his part. Crossland sallied forth in the 


176 


A POOR RELATION. 


direction of Harden Spinney. He was a man who loved 
power; the discovery, perchance it might even be the 
possession, of Gerald’s gun would give him a great deal 
of power over Gerald. And that was just what he 
wanted, for reasons which seemed to him to be all im- 
portant. • 

He set off along the foot-path leading to Harden 
Spinney, carefully scanning every yard of ground on 
each side. In the first half of the way the path led 
through his own land, and then across some pasture 
fields belonging to Squire Ingham. On his own land 
all his efforts were fruitless, no gun was to be found. 
But in the very first field, on the other side of the 
boundary line, his perseverance was rewarded. Lying 
in some long grass, almost hidden from view, lay the 
object of his search. There was no doubt the gun be- 
longed to Gerald Hartley, for his name was engraved on 
a silver plate let into the stock. On examining it. Cross- 
land found that one barrel was still loaded, while in the 
other an empty cartridge-case seemed to point to the 
fact that the gun had been fired off the previous night. 
A man would hardly leave home with his gun in such 
a condition. Horeover, some very pressing reason for 
hurrying off immediately after firing one shot would 
further tend to explain why the empty cartridge had 
not been extracted. 

AVhat was the reason for this hurried flight? 

Crossland knew that Gerald was incapable of carrying 
out his threat against the squire, even if he had uttered 
it, as people said. He, himself, professed to be Gerald’s 
friend, and yet took a curious pleasure in finding out 
that the evidence looked very bad against him. - 

One circumstance caused Crossland surprise, and he 


A POOR RELATION. 


177 


shook his head as if in mournful pity at such a depth 
of folly. It was that Gerald should have allowed one 
moment of daylight to pass unutilized in searching for 
his gun. That it should be found by any one, on land 
to which he had no lawful access, was in itself some- 
thing that might give rise to serious suspicions and de- 
mand a little explanation on the part of its owner. 

Gerald, however, was neither so foolish nor so reckless 
as his apparent indifference to the discovery of his gun 
might seem to imply. The explanation of his neglect 
to search for it was very simple. Thoroughly wearied 
out, both mentally and physically, by the scenes he had 
passed through before reaching home, he had overslept 
himself in the morning, and had even failed to hear the 
loud knock which the little maid as usual had given at 
his door. Unfortunately, too, for him, his non-appear- 
ance at the breakfast-table passed by almost unnoticed. 
His irregularity was much too frequent to call forth any 
comment on the part of the others. So his slumbers were 
undisturbed. Then again Maude was too poorly to come 
down to breakfast. Her indisposition still further tended 
to withdraw attention from himself. 

It was therefore fully ten o’clock before Gerald came 
downstairs. Having hastily partaken of a little break- 
fast he hurried off to recover, if possible, his gun. On 
his way to Harden Spinney loud and deep were the re- 
proaches he hurled at himself for being so late in the field. 

“Why, a score of people may have passed along this 
way already,” muttered he, as he approached Harden 
Spinney without seeing any traces of his gun. Finally, 
he stood at the very place where he had fired the fatal 
shot. How he cursed his folly for having been led away 
by tlie impulse of the moment to do such a mad thing ! 


178 


A POOR RELATION. 


He was, indeed, bitterly repenting of at least one 
action in his past life, one of his most recent ones, too. 
But from a moral standpoint his repentance might be 
considered extremely defective. It was rather a dread 
of the consequences of his conduct than any acute feel- 
ing of sorrow for the ill-doing itself. His act was to 
be intensely deplored because it might be brought to 
light. The bringing to light of it might involve him 
in serious disgrace. Nay, even some extreme penalties 
might follow. 

Slowly and sadly he retraced his steps, still narrowly 
searching in every slight hollow and closely scanning 
each foot of ground where the long grass or luxuriance 
of tall weeds seemed to offer a hiding-place for his gun. 
But of course his search was still fruitless. 

Once more he stood on Crossland’s land ; a few min- 
utes later face to face with its owner. 

On finding Gerald’s gun. Crossland, after extracting 
the full cartridge, had taken it to -pieces, carefully 
stowing away the* different parts in the capacious 
pockets of his shooting coat. Thus, without attracting ' 
any notice, he was able to take it safely home. After 
carefully locking it up, he next proceeded to place him- 
self on the lookout for Gerald, feeling convinced that, 
sooner or later, that young man would make his appear- 
ance, intent on the search for what was now in his own 
possession. 

“Ah, it’s the early bird again, Gerald,” chuckled Cross- 
land to himself, when at length he saw Gerald tardily 
appear in the very field where he had seen him already 
that morning, now many hours ago. 

Not allowing him to get out of sight. Crossland slowly 


A POOR RELATION. 


179 


followed him, sauntering, a.s it were, along the path, 
bent on anything but business. 

“Ah ! Hartley,” he exclaimed, when at length he came 
up to him, “how are you? Fine, fresh day, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, splendid day, splendid,” replied Gerald, me- 
chanically, inwardly fuming at this untoward meeting, 
which interrupted the important task he was engaged in. 

For fully a quarter of an hour Crossland kept his victim 
on tenter hooks, discoursing all the while on the most 
trivial subjects. So, at least, they appeared to Gerald. 

“You seem rather in a hurry to get off. Hartley,” said 
Crossland, at last, pretending to be suddenly aware of 
the other’s ill-concealed impatience to escape. 

“Well, I am rather in a hurry,” muttered Gerald, 
hardly venturing to look his friend in the face. “I have 
a little business on hand. ’ ’ 

“Business and Gerald Hartley! What an unusual 
combination!” exclaimed Crossland, with a laugh. 
“Has Lord Granton turned out trumps at last? But 
business connected with his good endeavors would 
hardly bring you here this morning.” 

“Oh, hang Lord Granton,” cried Gerald, ill-humor- 
edly. “I shan’t trouble him again in a hurry, you 
bet ! No, it’s quite different business ; but there, that 
can wait.” 

“I think I know what your business is,” replied 
Crossland, quietly, narrowly scanning the other’s face 
as he spoke. 

‘.‘You know what — what — my — business is?” stam- 
mered Gerald, turning deathly pale. 

“Well, I think so. But I don’t think you need worry 
any more about it this morning.” 


180 


A POOR RELATION. 


“What do you mean?” asked the other, almost in- 
audibly. 

“I mean this,” said Crossland, impressively, laying 
his hand on Gerald’s shoulder, “I have your gun. Come 
along with me, and I will show it to you.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GERALD’S DESPAIR. 

“ Why am I sitting here so stunn’d and still. 

It is this guilty hand ! 

And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening land — 

What is it that hath been done?” 

—Tennyson. Maud. 

“You have my gun?” cried Gerald, in tones of 
mingled amazement and terror. * 

“Yes, your gun,” calmly replied Crossland. “But 
come into the house,” and he quickened his steps to- 
ward it. 

As if in a dream his companion followed. 

Crossland led the way into his study, on reaching 
which he deliberately placed himself with his back 
toward the window. 

Sit down there, old man,” he said, pointing to an 
easy-chair, immediately facing the window at which 
he was standing. 

From the relative positions of the two it naturally 
resulted that the light fell full on Gerald’s face, while 
Crossland’s features were shaded by himself. In this 


A POOR RELATION. 


181 


way he' was able to see the slightest change in Ger- 
aid’s countenance, while the expression of his own 
face could not be clearly seen by him. It was not, 
by any means, the first time that Crossland had played 
this maneuver with his visitors, and not infrequently 
to his own decided advantage. 

“Have a glass of beer, Gerald? You look a bit 
fagged,” he said, with gissumed kindness. 

“No, thanks. I’m all right,” replied Gerald, huskily. 
He was in little humor for any refreshment. 

“No? Well, then, I won’t just now. But I don’t think 
a pipe would be a bad thing.” And, taking one from the 
rack, he filled and lighted it. 

All the time Gerald sat motionless, with his eyes fixed 
on the ground. 

“Let me see,”' said Crossland, at length, “what were 
we talking about? Oh, of course, your gun,” he added, 
in an airy tone. “Did I say how it came intoviny 
hands?” 

“No, you did not.” 

“Well, it was found just outside my land, in that first 
grass field of the squire’s, you know.” 

“Yes? When was that?” 

“Oh, about an hour ago. How did you manage to lose 
it?” And he looked searchingly at Gerald. 

“Oh, I was out duck-shooting last night, and coming 
—home— had a fall. In the dark I couldn’t— come across 
the confounded thing again,” faltered Gerald, hardly 
venturing to raise his eyes. 

Crossland refrained from asking how it was that his 
friend had gone out shooting without taking a box of 
lights with him. But, instead of asking that, he made 
an inquiry of quite a different character. 


182 


A POOR RELATION". 


“By-the-by, Gerald,” he said, “did you hear that 
Squire Ingham was shot last night, or rather early this 
morning?” 

“Squire Ingham shot!” cried Gerald, springing up 
from his chair while the drops of perspiration stood 
out like beads on his forehead. “Squire Ingham shot !” 
he repeated, in husky tones. Then, with a look of in- 
tense despair, he sank back in his chair, covering his 
face with his hands. 

“Yes, shot. Somewhere near Harden Spinney, they 
say.” 

For a few minutes the most perfect silence reigned in 
the room. Gerald still sat with his face buried in his 
hands. Crossland was inwardly blessing his good fort- 
une in having encountered Sikes and his foresight in 
securing the tell-tale gun. For he saw, more or less 
clearly, certain advantages which he might reap from 
Gerald’s misfortunes. Crossland was one of those men 
who rarely trouble themselves to any great extent about 
events which do not, or may not, eventually concern 
themselves. 

“Tliere is something else I should tell you, Gerald,” 
he said, at length, in tones apparently full of the deepest 
sympathj’- and tenderest interest, 

“Let me hear all you have to say,” replied Gerald, 
sullenly. “Your budget seems pretty full this morning. 
But I haven’t heard anything pleasant from it so far.” 

“My dear Gerald,” said Crossland, in deprecating 
tones, “really you speak as if I \vere responsible for 
the news I have to tell you this morning. But, of 
course, if you would rather not hear anything further 
I will—’- 


A POOR RELATION. 


183 


“No, no, let me have the lot,” cried Gerald, bruskly, 
interrupting him ; “I shall know the worst then.” 

“Well, I really think you ought to know this item,” 
went on Crossland, significantly. “You were seen leav- 
ing Harden Spinney this morning — and with your gun.” 

“Seen! By whom?” asked Gerald, faintly. 

“Well, by two people at least. But I think I can 
answer for the discretion of one.” 

Gerald did not resent the insinuation contained in 
what the other was saying, and this reticence on his 
part Crossland considered most damning. It was in- 
deed a tacit admission, he considered, that he was con- 
cerned in the wounding of Squire Ingham. 

“Things look rather black against me,” murmured 
Gerald, at last, “and I don’t mind confessing that, 
although they are not quite so bad as they look, there 
is some — ” 

“My dear Gerald,” interrupted Crossland, hastily, “I 
really must beg of you not to make any confession to 
me. Secrets are no secrets when confided to another, 
however trustworthy he may appear. At present I 
know nothing for certain, and therefore you need not 
fear on my account.” 

“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Gerald, after a 
pause. “You might find yourself ^Dlaced in rather an 
awkward fix some time or other. And I don’t want 
to drag any one else into my misfortunes.” 

“Another admission,” thought Crossland. Aloud he 
said, tentatively: “Of course, if I can really help you?” 
He had no wish to appear unfriendly. 

“No; I don’t think you or any one else can help me,” 
said Gerald, after a slight pause. “When a man’s made 
a fool of himself outside help won’t do away with the 


184 


A POOR RELATION. 


consequences of liis folly. And now let me go,” he 
added, rising from his seat. “Good-by,” and he held 
out his hand; “don’t think quite the worst of me.” 
Then, without giving Crossland any time for replying, 
he hurriedly left the room. 

A smile of pleasure lighted up Crossland’s features when 
the door closed on his friend. So far from being touched 
by the agony which he plainly saw the other was suffer- 
ing, or even shocked at the barely veiled confession of a 
crime, he began to weigh in his mind the possible ad- 
vantages to himself which might result from the events 
of the past few hours. 

Gerald’s manner, his silence, as well as his words, all 
pointed to the , conclusion that he had shot Squire Ing- 
ham. And Crossland felt convinced that his parting 
words plainl}^ intimated that, to escape the consequences 
of his crime, he was about to flee from the neighbor- 
hood. His -^'ery flight, coupled with the fact of his 
having been seen coming from Harden Spinney that 
morning, would, in the minds of many people, amount 
to a tacit admission of his guilt. 

If the squire died, whether Gerald was actually dis- 
covered and proved guilty or not, an insurmountable 
barrier was thus raised forever between Eustace Ingham 
and Maude Hartley. One obstacle to Crossland’s success- 
ful suit of Maude was thus removed. Should, however, 
the girl still prove cold and unmoved by his wooing, the 
knowledge he had obtained of Gerald’s doings might be 
so utilized as to bring her to her senses. 

And, if Gerald was in such dire disgrace, the other 
members of the Hartley family might not unreasonably 
be expected to come in for his share of the elder Hart- 
ley’s money. 


A POOR RELATION. 


185 


In the meantime Gerald hastened home, with one 
thought standing out prominently in his mind: He 
must make his escape from Marburn at once. To 
remain, seemed to be courting the most dreadful con- 
sequences, the mere thought of which made him shudder 
with shame and terror. 

He had been poaching on the squire’s property. While 
thus unlawfully engaged he had, accidentally, it was 
true, wounded the squire himself. He had been seen 
and recognized near the very spot where the deed was 
done. His gun had been discovered and traced to him- 
self. And worst, and most damning fact of all, he had 
been heard to threaten the squire for having used strong 
language to himself when detected in an earlier act of 
poaching. True, he was innocent of all intention of 
wounding Ingham. Yes, but for proof of that there 
was nothing but his bare word. 

If Ingham recovered he wmuld naturally, after what 
had occurred at their last meeting, be inclined to place 
the worst construction on his actions. 

No, there seemed nothing for him that would do any 
good but immediate flight. Better to escape, even if his 
flight were considered further proof of his guilt, than to 
remain and suffer because unable to prove his innocence. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

crossland’s machinations. 

“ But all was false and hollow, though his tongue 
Dropt manna ; and could make the worse appear 
The better reason.” — Milton. 

After his interview with Crossland, Gerald Hartley 
went home, collected his very slender stock of jewelry 


186 


A POOR RELATION. 


and most portable valuables, and then, without one word 
of farewell to any one in the house, set olf for Rush ton. 

His last look at Marburn, as he glanced back from the 
top of a small hill over which the road led, had not any 
regret in it. He was leaving no plea«ant associations 
behind him, carrying no pleasant memories with him. 
Just the contrary, in fact. His life at Marburn had been 
a failure in every way. Disappointment, coldness, re- 
proaches had met him on every side. So he thought, 
with a heart full of bitterness. And then, finally, there 
was his last stroke of ill fortune. But although Gerald 
admitted to himself that his past life had been such a 
distinct failure, he would not admit that the cause of 
that failure was to be found in himself. Like many 
people who willfully go wrong, and then have to suffer 
for their actions, he was ready to blame everything and 
everybody but himself. His late father’s want of busi- 
ness capacity, Lord Granton’s neglect and want of 
family affection. Squire Ingham’s insolence, his uncle’s 
burdensome officiousness and disagreeableness generally, 
these, and a variety of other causes, all existent in other 
people, had helped to mar his life. He was an unfortu- 
nate victim, with a bitter grievance against society in 
general and many individuals at Marburn in particular. 

It may be thought that Gerald’s act in fieeing from 
Marburn in order to avoid the possible danger of being 
brought to justice for wounding, perhaps it might be 
causing the death of, the squire proves him to have been 
utterly devoid of courage. But it is not necessarily so. 
For a man may be physically brave and yet morally a 
coward. He may be able to bear cheerfully bodily pain, 
or run the risk of losing his life, and yet shrink utterly 
from going contrary to public opinion. He may prefer 


A POOR RELATION. 


187 


* the blows of an enemy to the taunts of a friend. He may 
be physically brave enough to risk his life in a bad cause, 
and yet morally weak enough to shrink froni the slight- 
est suffering in one that is just but unpopular. Gerald 
had often risked his life on his sporting expeditions, but 
morally, as we have seen, he was a coward. 

And again, even physical courage may be weakened by 
persistent self-indulgence. A man constitutionally brave 
but inherently selfish, and not averse to fighting in his 
own defense, may seriously ask himself whether danger 
will not be too great if he fights in defense of others. To 
get into the way of thinking only of one’s self is seriously 
to diminish the field of action in which even animal cour- 
age may display itself. And therefore it is possible that, 
even as regards Gerald’s natural physical bravery, there 
had been a gradual but not the less sure deterioration. 

On reaching Rushton Gerald wrote a letter to Maude, 
in which he plainly declared that he had left Marburn 
for good. He was weary of the place, and was going 
out into the world to search for opportunities which it 
was useless expecting would come to him at home. To 
some of his friends his presence in the family circle had 
become distasteful, and therefore it was better to re- 
lieve them of it. Perhaps, in the future, they might be 
led to see how thej^ had misjudged him. It would be 
useless trying to discover his whereabouts, but from 
time to time he would write. 

Then on a separate sheet of paper, which was only in- 
tended for Maude’s eye, he added a few lines stating 
that she would doubtless divine another reason for his 
sudden departure. Even to her it was hardly advisable 
to say more. 

Having posted the letter, he hurried to the station and 


188 


A POOR RELATION. 


took a ticket for London, which, however, was not his 
first destination, for at Boxley, a small station some ten 
miles from London, he left the train and gave up his 
ticket. 

This was part of his scheme for eluding the police, who 
he felt convinced would soon be searching for him as the 
perpetrator of the murderous assault committed on Squire 
Ingham. From Boxley he walked on to London, and, on 
arriving there, made certain changes in his dress, ex- 
changing his well-cut clothes for others of a coarser and 
much less fashionable description. After that he chose 
a very humble lodging, suitable both to his appearance 
and his purse. 

In all this he woiild have been extremely surprised 
had he known that his every action was noted by a 
Marburn man, and would be faithfully reported to an- 
other inliabitant of the village in which he had been liv- 
ing for so many months. 

But the fact was, that hardly had Gerald left Cross- 
land’s house, that morning, when the latter set off to 
the cottage of a man named Joe Brown. Joe was a 
cockney by birth, but at eighteen years of age he had 
taken a place as groom in the neighborhood of Marburn. 
Finally, after various changes— for he had his peculiari-* 
ties— he drifted to Marburn and entered Crossland’s serv- 
ice. For some time the latter bore with his faults, 
among which were a tendency to exaggeration in 
speech and a partiality to drink, as he was clever with 
horses, but the end came when Joe added dishonesty 
to his other failings. That was the last straw, and 
Crossland dismissed him. Instead, however, of prose- 
cuting him, he made* him sign a paper, in which he 
confessed his delinquencies. This confession placed him 


A POOR RELATION. 


189 


m Crossland’s power, and Joe proved useful to his 
former master on occasions when discretion and si- 
lence were more necessary than a tender conscience. 
It is remarkable, by the way, that in dealing with 
horses a tender h'and is much more valuable than a 
tender conscience. Joe was remarkably clever both 
in breaking in and in showing off and selling a horse. 
In all these branches of horsemanship Crossland still 
found his services invaluable. Joe might, indeed, have 
been called an unattached member of his household staff. 

“Ah, Joe, how are you?” he exclaimed, as he entered 
his cottage. “Glad to find you still at home.” 

Joe looked at him suspiciously, being doubtful as 
to what this solicitude about his health and whereabouts 
might portend. 

“Oh, I be’m all right, sir, thank you,” he replied, cheer- 
fully, muttering, however, to himself: “I wonder what 
his little game is now.” Joe had not too exalted an 
opinion of his own merits. Early in life he had arrived 
at the conclusion that when people seemed solicitous 
about his welfare their interests rather than his own 
were the motives of their tender inquiries. 

“Like to earn two pounds a week?” asked Crossland, 
abruptly, after a moment’s pause. 

“Well, sir, that depends,” replied Joe, cautiously. 

“Oh, it’s easy work,” said Crossland, as if in answer 
to the question that the man had not asked. “Easy 
work. No risk. Good pay. Now, then, be quick. 
Yes, or no?” 

“Which it is yes, with many thanks. Two pounds a 
week ain’t to be sneezed at.” 

“Veiy well, then, listen to me for your instructions. 
You know Mr. Gerald Hartley, of course? All right.. 


190 


A POOR RELATION. 


He’s going to leave Marburn to-day. Perhaps in a few 
minutes. You must follow him and find out where he 
goes to. Understand? And you must stay near and 
keep your .eye upon him. Of course, all your expenses 
will be paid, too. Now, then, be off in ten minutes, and 
send me a line every morning.” 

Crossland handed over to Joe five pounds toward his 
expenses, and then, with a few words of caution as to 
the need of not being detected in his work, he went 
home, feeling confident that Joe would do his best to 
earn his two pounds a week. 

Crossland next paid a visit to the lowly dwelling of 
Mr. Sikes. As he expected, and indeed hoped, the man 
was from home. According to Mrs. Sikes, his sister-in- 
law, with whom he lodged, pressing business had called 
him away that morriing quite early. 

Ah, I suppose a telegram came for him quite unex- 
pectedly in the middle of the night, ” remarked Cross- 
land, ironically, on hearing this piece of news. “I 
should think Bill’s society is a good deal sought after, 
Mrs. Sikes?” 

“Yes, sir. Bill he have a many friends,” said Mrs. 
Sikes, failing to catch the full meaning of the ’remark — 
at least, so she pretended. 

“I don’t wonder at that, Mrs. Sikes. Well, the next 
time you write to him just say that one of his friends 
round the corner there, Wilkins, the constable, wants 
to have a little of his company. You won’t forget, Mrs. 
Sikes?” and he gave her a look full of meaning. 

“No, sir. I’ll be sure and give him your message,” said 
the woman, unabashed, and speaking as cheerfully as if 
the absent Mr. Sikes would^ be delighted to hear that Mr. 
Wilkins was hankering after his society. 


A POOR RELATION. 


191 


Crossland felt convinced that his message in some way 
or other, even without the aid of post-office, would reach 
its destination. 

“Now, that’s what I call a good morning’s work,” said 
he to himself, as he strolled home. “Brown will find 
out where Hartley makes tracks to, and that is most im- 
portant for me to know. It is equally important that 
Sikes keeps away from here for some time, and I fancy 
my message will have its due effect on him. He will 
understand that I don’t intend to let him off this time, 
and he knows pretty well that the magistrates will make 
it hot for him on his next appearance before them.” 

In the afternoon of that day the old vicar called at 
Ivy Cottage, and in the course of conversation with 
Mrs. Hartley and Maude said: “A sad thing this acci- 
dent of the squire’s ! I have just been to the Hall. He 
lies unconscious. They are in great distress.” 

“Accident ! Squire Ingham ! Unconscious ! What 
do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley, in amazement. 

“Didn’t you know the poor squire was shot last night 
in Marden Spinney?” asked the vicar, in a tone of sur- 
prise, for all the villagers knew the news by that time. 

“No, indeed. Never heard a word of it. Maude, my 
dear, what is the matter?” 

The girl’s needlework had fallen from her hands. 
She was deathly pale. 

“I — I don’t feel very well,” she faltered, “I think I 
will go upstairs. ” 

“Ah, do. Go and lie down. You have not been well 
all day,” said her mother, adding, as the door closed 
after her: “She got up late with a bad headache. Poor 
child ! She inherits them from me.” 


192 


A POOR RELATION. 


Tlie vicar expressed his concern, also his confidence in 
the curative power of certain remedies dear to the minds 
of our ancestors ; and then he proceeded to discuss the 
matter of the squire’s accident. 

“It seems,” he said, “the keepers had been worrying 
him with tales of poachers, and feeling irritated at their 
failure to make any captures, he went out himself last 
night, about half-past three o’clock, to see if the watch- 
ers were doing their duty or if he could himself discover 
anything of the poachers. No one knew that he had 
gone but Mrs. Ingham, and, at last, becoming uneasy at 
his continued absence, she called her son up and sent 
him out to look for his father. Poor Eustace, poor fel- 
low ! It was a great shock to him to find his father lying 
unconscious under the trees, where the birds of which 
he had been so jealous were still quietly roosting. ” And, 
taking his spectacles off, the old man rubbed them gently. 
The squire and he had been neighbors for more than 
fifty years, and the squire’s son was looked upon by 
him almost as if he were his own. 

“But will he not recover?” asked Mrs. Hartley. “Is 
he not likely to recover?” 

“While there is life there is hope,” said the other ; “that 
is what the doctors say, and they generally say it when 
the hope is small. Poor Ingham! Poor, poor fellow!” 
And the good man sighed to think how useless and selfish 
had been the life that was wellnigh over, and how his 
old friend had persistently disregarded the gently given 
counsels he had as persistently bestowed upon him from 
time to time. 

After he had gone Mrs. Ingham went up to Maude 
and found her lying on her bed, looking pale and tearful, 
but feeling better, so she said. . • 


A POOK RELATION. 


19(5 

“Lie still, dear, and try to sleep,” said the mother, 
bathing her brow gently with eau-de-cologne. Then, to 
Maude’s relief, she went away, leaving her alone with 
her great trouble. 

Could anything have been worse than that Gerald 
should have shot the father of the man she loved? 

And she could speak to no one but Gerald of this 
grievous matter. Oh, how she longed for her brother 
to come home ! She lay so still she could hear every 
sound in the hall below ; but the footstep for which she 
listened never came. 

By and by she rose, and, batliing her face and hands, 
tried to make herself look as usual, and went downstairs 
and listened as best she could to her mother’s talk about 
the retribution which had come upon the man who had 
been so uncourteous to them of late. “He has never 
prospered,” said the good lady, with something of Job 
Turner’s spirit, “since he behaved so badly to us in for- 
bidding all intercourse between the Hall and the Cot- 
tage. First, he lost his property, and now he has all 
but lost his life. ’ ’ 

That evening Maude contrived to sit up alone, waiting 
for Gerald’s return. The others wondered a little at his 
continued absence, still they thought he might be staying 
with Crossland ; some one had seen him go in that direc- 
tion in the morning ; and so, telling Maude not to wait 
up long, as she was not well, and he could let himself ip 
with his latch-key, they one after another retired to their 
own rooms. 

Maude waited long, but in her heart she did not expect 
her brother to return ; and, at last, slowly and sorrow- 
fully, she went up to her own bedroom and went to bed 
but not to sleep. 


194 


A POOR RELATION. 

The events of*the previous night stood out with hideous 
distinctness in her mind, filling her again with horror. 
Gerald’s appearance, with torn clothes, bespattered with 
mud ; the blood upon his hands and face, his explanation 
that he had wounded, perhaps killed, some one. The 
news she had heard that day, v^ith a terrible sinking at 
her heart, that Squire Ingham had been shot in Marden 
Spinney. And now Gerald’s flight — for such she felt sure 
it was. All these pointed to the one terrible fact that he 
had wounded, perhaps given the death-blow, to Eustace 
Ingham’s father. “Oh, if it had only been any one else, 
my trouble would have been less.!” she moaned. “Oh, 
why should it just happen to be he? Oh, cruel, cruel 
blow! He vvill die! he will die! and his death will 
separate Eustace and me !” 

Then she chid herself for selfishness in thinking of that 
at such a time. Why, if the squire died, Gerald, her 
brother, whom, in spite of all his faults, she loved so 
dearly— Gerald might be hung for murdering him. He 
was known to have used threatening language against 
him, Gerald himself had told her that. He had gone, 
with his gun, to Marden Spinney the same night, had 
fired it, and then had lost it there. Had they found it? 

“Oh, foolish me !” thought poor Maude, starting up in 
bed and staring with horror into the darkness, “why 
did I not go early this morning to seek it? I never 
thought what evidence it would be against him. Could 
I go now?” 

Starting up, she rose, drew aside her window-curtain 
and looked out. The night was dark ; heavy rain-clouds 
hid the moon from view. It would be impossible, even if 
she dare venture to go there alone, for her to find any- 
thing without the help of a good lantern, and that 


A POOR RELATION. 


195 


would probably reveal her presence to others and bring 
suspicion upon her brother. And some one else must 
have found the gun by now. 

She crept into bed again, shivering, but not with cold, 
and then her excited fancy seemed to see Gerald, her 
handsome brother, with that wild look of horror on his 
face which had frightened her so the night before, 
standing a prisoner at the bar in a court of justice, while 
the judge pronounced the dreadful sentence of penal 
servitude for life. 

For after all they could not really bring him in guilty 
of the greater crime of murder. 

A felon ! A convict for life ! 

Oh ! he did well to escape, to hide. But she would 
never see him any more. He would never dare show 
himself even to her. Always, forever, over his head 
would be hanging the sword of Damocles. The hand of 
justice might find him. 

Suddenly, as if to make the contrast more terrible, her 
thoughts reverted to one happy day in the now distant 
past, before her father’s death. It was her birthday. 
She was reading, or rather her book had fallen from her 
hands, and she was lost in happy day-dreams as she sat 
on a garden-seat on the beautiful lawn of their old home. 
Gerald come up with a lovely rose for her, and throwing 
himself on the grass at her feet, talked to her more affec- 
tionately than he had ever done before, telling her she 
was his favorite sister and he knew she always understood 
him better than did any of the others. How proud and 
pleased she was as he went on to say he hoped she would 
never marry, that he wanted her always to live with him. 
She declared in return that he was her favorite brother, 
and that she would never, never leave him. So she 


196 


A POOR RELATION. 


thought and so she meant at the mature age of sixteen. 
But that was before she met Eustace. And now, oh, the 
pity of it ! Gerald had shot the father of the man she 
loved ! Gerald a felon ! A convict for life ! 

Oh, how could she bear the thought and live ! She 
would never, never be happy any more while this dread- 
ful danger threatened Gerald. 

By and by, after what seemed to her to be hours of 
this agony, the poor girl fell into a troubled sleep. And 
then she dreamt that she was seeking, seeking Gerald in 
a great and gloomy wood. It was dark there under the 
trees and cold, she shivered in her sleep ; and it seemed 
to her as if she had been searching a long time, and she 
was very tired. All at once, just as she was despairing 
of finding him for whom she looked, she came to the 
opening of a small cave and saw him in it, crouching 
by a small wood fire. When he looked up and saw 
•her a very pitiful expression came into his face, and he 
said, imploringly: “Maude, have mercy, save me! I’ve 
found just a little peace and tolerable safety here — don’t 
tell. them where I am.” And, at that, she cried aloud: 
“I never will.” And with the cry she awoke. 

It was early morning. The first gray light was steal- 
ing through the closed blinds. 

Turning her face away from it toward the wall, Maude 
said, in a low tone of great determination : “God helping 
me, 1 icill keep his secret. 1 ivill save Mm." 

The morning’s post brought Gerald’s letter, which gave 
much pain to the other members of the little family, 
though to Maude it caused a feeling of relief. At any 
rate he had got safely away. 

Before the day was over she went to see Crossland 
and ascertain whether he was aware of her brother’s 


A POOK RELATION . 


197 • 


movements. Gerald might have taken him into his con- 
fidence. 

Crossland was not altogether unprepared for her visit. 
If Gerald had left home unknown to his friends, and con- 
cealing his future movements from them, to whom would 
they naturally apply for information but to him? 

Maude went straight to the point. “Mr. Crossland,” 
slie said, after they had exchanged greetings, “Gerald 
has left home.* Can you, without any breach of confi- 
dence, give me any information as to his movements?” 

Without a moment’s hesitation Crossland replied: 
“Not the slightest. In fact, Gerald left me yesterday 
without telling me that he intended to leave home.” 

“And had you no suspicion of his intention?” persisted 
Maude. She looked ill and unhappy. Her appearance 
might have touched him if he had been less selfish. 

“My dear Miss Hartley,” he answered, “if I am to help 
you we must be perfectly frank with each other. Let 
me ask you this question : Do you know of any press- 
ing reason why Gerald should escape from Marburn?” 
And he looked searchingly at her. “Remember, I don’t- 
want to force your confidence,” he hastily added. “I 
don’t ask what that reason was, or is.” 

“Mr. Crossland,” replied Maude, looking up at him 
confidently, for his tone was very kind and his manner 
most sympatlietic, “I will be frank. For I feel I can 
trust you.’' 

Crossland’s reply was a slight bow. Inwardly he was 
full of rejoicing. To be trusted was something to the 
good. 

“Two nights ago,” went on Maude, “when Gerald was 
out duck-shooting he 3iad the misfortune to wound some 
one, accidentally of course, and 


198 


A POOR RELATION. 


'‘And now let me finish,” interrupted Crossland. 
“Confidence for condfidence. That some one proved 
to be Squire Ingham, who, with some keepers, was in 
Harden Spinney on the lookout, for poachers. Lately they 
have been very busy among the squire’s game. Gerald 
was known to be on bad terms with the squire, had been 
heard, indeed, to utter threats against him. He was rec- 
ognized making his escape from Harden Spinney, and so, 
fearful of being arrested on the charge of unlawfully 
wounding, or — something even worse,” he paused, and 
looked significantly at the girl. “Gerald thought it best 
to make his escape. Is that how you 'put things together ? ’ ’ 
he concluded by asking with an inquiring look. 

“Yes, yes, something like that,” murmured Haude, 
who felt almost stifled wjth the intensity of her emotion. 

“Some of this,” he went on, “I gathered from Gerald 
himself ; one or two items I learned from another source, 
and the rest is pure conjecture. For, as I said before, 
Gerald did not intimate to me his intention of leaving 
Harburn.” 

“And does suspicion rest on him?” asked Haude, 
through her tears. 

“Ah, that I can’t say,” replied Crossland. “The most 
I can affirm is this, the police authorities entertian no 
suspicion, for they have issued bills offering a reward for 
the conviction of the person, or persons, concerned in 
the attempt made on Hr. Ingham’s life.” 

“Thank God for that!” cried poor Haude, fervently, 
clasping her hands. 

Just before taking her leave she asked : “If you should 
hear from Gerald and feel at liberty to tell me—” 

“Hy dear Hiss Hartley,” he interrupted, ^‘you may 


A POOR RELATION. 


199 


rely upon me at all times for any help I can give you 
under these trying circumstances.” 

“Oh, thank you,” she added, earnestly; “thank you 
very much.” And she could not say any more, but 
turned hastily away to conceal the tears which again 
streamed down her face. 

As Crossland stood at the hall door watching her go 
slowly away a triumphant smile played for an instant 
about his mouth. He thought he was progressing well, 
also, in that direction. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CONCERNING THE RUNAWAY. 

“E meglio die si dici qui fuggi die qui mori.” 

(Better it be said, here he ran away than here he died.) 

—Italian Proverb. 

“ Sweet are the uses of adversity. 

Which, like a toad, ugly and venomous. 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.” 

• — Shakespeare. 

In the very humble lodging to which Gerald had gone 
in London he began, at his leisure, to study the problem 
of what he was to do with himself. Where should he go? 
What should he do? It would be safer to escape from 
England, and his slender purse made it necessary that 
he should find some employment in whatever country 
he made his home. At last, he would be obliged to work, 
or starve. There was no longer any alternative. 

A week passed and this weighty problem was still un- 
solved. Decision of character, except in the pursuit of 


200 


A POOR RELATION. 


his own pleasures, had never been Gerald’s strong point. 
Nor was his a nature to be braced up by adversity or 
strengthened in the hour of need and danger. Some 
characters display unexpected and startlingly deep re- 
sources in times of trial. He was not one of these. On the 
contrary, any sudden emergency — outside the mere phys- 
ical w'orld, that is — tended rather to paralyze his energies. 

In the meantime he saw with dismay the gradual at- 
tenuation of his slender purse. ■ This was hardly calcu- 
lated to encourage him, even if it proved an additional 
stimulus to his maturing some speedy plan of action. 
And, finally, he was indebted to another for the sugges- 
tion of what we may call a start in life— such as it was. 

One afternoon, some ten days after his arrival in Lon- 
don, he was sitting in the private bar of a tavern, en- 
deavoring to clear his brain and quicken his ideas by the 
aid of stimulants. Experience had not taught him that 
such resources rather tended to obscure than brighten 
the intellect. But with some people even the teaching 
of a bitter experience sink slowly into the mind. 

“Hullo, mate,” cried a man, w*ho was sitting near 
him, “you seem down in your luck to-day. What’s up?” 

Gerald turned indignantly toward the speaker, who, by 
his dress, was evidently a sergeant in some cavalry regi- 
ment. 

“Oh, no offense, sir, I hope,” replied the man, as if in 
answer to his look; “no offense, sir, but I don’t like to 
see a gentleman looking so sad and downcast.” 

Somewhat mollified by this more respec-tf ul mode of 
address, Gerald replied: “Well, things do look rather 
black just now. ” 

“Sorry to hear it, sir, sorry to hear it,” answered the 
sergeant, ‘heartily. He had detected in Gerald’s bearing 


A POOR RELATION. 


201 


that he was something more than his dress betokened. 
“But there’s many a young gentleman like you,” heM^ent 
on, tentatively, “looking out for a fresh opening in life,” 
and he cast a piercing glance at Gerald. 

The young man had given a little start at the words “a 
fresh opening.” Tliat was just what he wanted. 

“\es, sir,” went on the man, not unobservant of the 
elfect of his words, “and I will say this, for a gentleman 
tliere’s no place like the army just now. Get a coinmis 
sion in no time ! And more that that, until that time 
comes you’ll meet lots of men like yourself in the ranks. ” 

“Broken gentlemen?” suggested Gerald, with a tinge 
of bitterness in his voice. 

“Broken, sir?” cried the sergeant, somewhat indignant- 
ly. “Not a bit of it. Gentlemen who will go into the 
army, and who can’t wait until they have passed their 
examinations, and some who can’t paas them if they 
wait forever !” and he smiled significantly at Gerald. 

“They. haven’t given t/ow a commission yet, sergeant?” 
suggested Gerald, with a smile. 

“Me, sir? No, and never would,” returned the other, 
somewhat bitterly. “They want a soldier for an olficer, 
but they want a gentleman, too ! In times of war I 
might have a chance, but in times of peace I and the 
likes of me might wait forever. And more than that. 
What should I do with a commission? I should be like 
a fish out of water. But with a gentleman, as I think 
you are, things would be dift’erent.” 

For some time Gerald made no reply to the sergeant’s 
insinuations and suggestions ; he was deeply considering 
the prospect which the man’s words opened out to him. 

Things were very different with him now from what 
they were when he had been so indignant because Uncle 


202 


A POOR RELATION. 


Jack had suggested the same idea. To enter the army, 
even as a private, seemed to him a ready way out of some 
of his present difficulties. In the ranks he might be just 
as safe from detection as in a foreign land. His daily 
bread would be assured him, and above all there was 
the possibility, as he knew well, of obtaining a com- 
mission. 

The thought was a welcome one now; with the natural 
buoyancy of youth, his imagination, freed for the moment 
from the dark cloud which overshadowed him, bore him 
forward to the time when it should have dispersed en- 
tirely. Instead of hiding from the stern hand of justice 
while one lay wounded, it might be unto death, by his 
own hand, he would then be in an honored and honor- 
able position such as any gentleman v/ould be glad to 
occupy. For Squire Ingham might recover, and with 
recovery might come a desire to overlook the past and 
allow his assailant to escape unpunished. 

Such reflections were very pleasant, and Gerald con- 
soled himself with them as he sat pondering over the 
sergeant’s proposal. 

Finally his mind was made up. He would enlist. 

The next day he began to learn his duties as a recruit 
in the 16 th Lancers, then stationed at Aldershot. 

He had enlisted under the name of Henry Barnes. 

Meantime, at home, Maude found it a grievous thing to 
have to bear about with her his secret. Those were sad 
days for her, but her character gained in strength and 
sweetness as she daily strove to forget her own grief 
that she might soothe her mother by her cheerfulness 
of manner. 

Mrs. Hartley was in despair. Gerald was her favorite 
child and he had left her without one parting caress or 


A FOOK KELATION. 


203 


one word of farewell. But even in the midst of her 
grief she could find excuses for him. The world had 
used him roughly, unmerited misfortune had come 
upon him, obscuring the bright prospects which lay 
before him. Disappointment, the monotony of the hum- 
drum life at Marburn and the neglect of their one rich 
and powerful relation had preyed upon his mind. She 
entirely overlooked both her own weak indulgence of 
him and his intense selfishness and want of energy. 

Still, in the midst of her grief, a ray of hope came to 
her. Did it spring from the thought that out of sheer 
desperation and disgust with his past life Gerald would 
force himself to the exertion of his mental and moral 
capabilities, and that from the dead stepping-stone of his 
dead self he might rise to nobler things? Not in the 
least. Her hope was that Gerald would return to her 
own home, because, humble though it was, it offered 
to him certain comforts and even luxuries which other- 
Avise he could not have. 

Some time ago a young man of our acquaintance, 
over-indulged by a fond mother, took it into his head 
to go to Australia to make his fortune. His mother 
was in despair. But his letters after a six months’ resi- 
dence at the Antipodes filled her with hopes of his 
speedy return. He complained of having to sleep upon 
sacks ! Feather-beds had passed out of his reach. ‘Long- 
ing for them, she knew, would soon send him home. It 
never occurred to the poor mother that a much nobler 
satisfaction might arise from the conviction that hei 
son Avas in all seriousness setting to AA'oik to earn money 
and provide feather-beds for himself. 

Mrs. Hartley Avas not unlike this mother ; and her un- 
reasonable partiality for Gerald placed the other mem- 


204 


A POOR RELATION. 


bers of the faniilj" in a most awkward position. For she 
resented the slightest remark which seemed to reflect 
upon his character either as a son or a brother. 

Uncle Jack got out of patience with her; but respect 
for her grief made him refrain from expressing his real 
opinion of his nephew’s conduct — in her presence, that 
is. In fact," George Turner was the only person before 
whom he felt at liberty to speak plainly. 

“Between ourselves, George,” said he, “I am heartily 
glad, except of course for his mother’s sake, that Gerald 
has taken this step. Knocking about a little in the world 
will do him good. If it does not stir him up to work 
really hard at something it may lead him to appreciate 
the home he has run away from.” 

“You believe in the school of adversity?” said George, 
smiling. 

“Well, yes, if a man has any real grit in him. And 
I suppose Gerald must have a little concealed somewhere. 
The Hartleys generally had. Unfortunately, in Gerald’s 
case it seems to take such a precious lot of digging to 
get to it. But then, after all, he isn’t the only one to 
blame. Train up a child, etc. Training, sir, training 
will tell.” 

They were interrupted by the sound of the passing 
bell, and then— • 

“ • • • Each looked on each. 

Up in the midst a thought grew vdthout speech.” 

“So he has gone,” said Turner, softly. 

“Ay, poor squire,” sighed Uncle Jack. . 

“It’s an awful thing to be cut off suddenly in that 
way,” said George. “I wonder who shot him?” 


A POOR RELATION. 


205 


'‘One of those poaching fellows, I expect,’' replied the 
other. “Poor Ingham! I’m sorry for his children. 
Nice young people 1 No airs about them. ” 

“Every one loves them,” said Turner, enthusiastically. 
“As they well may. It must have been a fearful fort- 
night for them, while their father lingered on from day 
to day, and they knew not whether he would live, or even 
regain consciousness, or not. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

AN UNEXPECTED BLOW. 

“Ch, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once!” 

— Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. 

Three months had passed since Squire Ingham’s death. • 
Three busy months for Eustace. He had been engaged, 
not only in winding up his father’s affairs, but also in 
finding a home for his mother and sister. 

Mrs. Ingham had decided to leave Marburn Hall. For 
she no longer required such a large house and establish- 
ment, and the land attached to the Hall, merely held for 
the shooting it afforded, was now a burden entailing 
heavy expense — for gamekeepers are costly — and the 
possession of the shooting which he valued so much had 
been the indirect cause of the squire’s death. It was 
therefore no wonder that the whole place had become 
distasteful to her, and she desired to go quite out of the 
neighborhood. 

Her own property, Birley ‘Court, was let, as we have 


206 


A POOR RELATION. 


seen, and would not be free for two years. Their fii*st 
necessity, therefore, was to find a suitable house at a 
sufficient distance from a place connected with so many 
painful associations. 

For some time Eustace had his hands quite full. The 
term desirable, as it applies to residences, “connotes,’' 
as the logicians have it, has many qualities, especially to 
persons who have been living all their lives in such a 
place as Marbnrn Hall. Climate, scenery, society, ample 
accommodation for a staff of servants — these and other 
details have to be taken into consideration. And however 
desirable a residence may seem, when described in the 
eloquent periods of an advertisement, it not infrequently 
loses many of its vaunted charms when seen and inspected 
by the critical eye of those who seek to turn a “desirable 
residence’ ’ into a real home. Hence there were many dis- 
appointments and much delay before a suitable place could 
be found. Finally, however, Barnham Lodge, near Chi- 
chester, seemed to offer the most advantages with the 
fewest objections. The Inghams decided upon taking 
it, and then, until the actual moment for removing 
thither arrived, Eustace found a little spare time for 
devoting to his own private affairs, which had been 
too long neglected. 

Maude Hartley was by no means unconnected with 
these private affairs. Was she ever far removed from 
the young man’s thoughts? Was she not, in the happy 
future he pictured to himself, to form an integral part 
of his life? Were they not hand-in-hand to walk to- 
getlier along the path of life, till “death do us part’’? It 
was thus in his dreams— happy day-dreams — Eustace had 
mapped out the future. For now there seemed no 
reason wliy the course of “true love’’ should not “run 


A POOR RELATION, 


207 


smooth. ” It was true, certainly, that of late, both before 
and after his father’s death, their intercourse had been 
of a very limited nature. But then, force of circum- 
stances and not mutual inclination had tended to keep 
them apart. His feelings toward her had not changed, 
nor would he believe that hers would lightly change. 
And although no word of love had ever been exchanged 
between them, he fondly believed that he had won her 
heart. “Trifles light as air are,” to the lover as well 
as to the jealous, “confirmations strong as proofs of Holy 
Writ.” 

It was also true that, on the rare occasions when of 
late chance had brought them together, she seemed to 
shrink a little from him and appeared less cordial in 
manner, but he saw nothing ominous to his suit in this. 
He knew how fond she was of her brother, and that 
Gerald’s disappearance from home must have caused 
her a great shock. Her altered appearance — of late she 
had lost her usual color as well as high spirits — amply 
proved this. And her friends at Ivy Cottage had la- 
mented in his presence that anxiety on her brother’s 
account was weighing terribly upon her mind. Well, it 
would be his happiness to try and console her in her 
grief, and by his loving care and attention make up to 
her for the absence of Gerald. And then, when they 
were engaged, she would have a claim on his services 
in the endeavor to trace her brother, and when he was 
found, to procure for him, if possible, some opening in 
life suitable to his inclination and capacity. 

Thus reasoned the lover. He had a rude awakening 
to these sweet but illusive day-dreams. 

At last, the first three months of mourning for his 
father were over, the pressure of business had slackened 


208 


A POOR RELATION. 


and the day had come when he felt quite at liberty to 
give utterance to the feelings which he had cherished 
so long in his heart. Now, at length, he was in every 
way free to urge his suit upon Maude. Without any mis. 
givings that she would not be ready to accept the affec- 
tion or receive his offer favorably, he set off to Ivy 
Cottage to seek for an interview with her. 

On the way there, however, lie met Maude taking 
her morning walk across the fields. 

“How fortunate!” he exclaimed, after tliey had ex- 
changed a few casual remarks. “Fcu’, do you know 
— Maude — Miss Hartley, I was coming to Ivy Cottage 
on purpose to see you.” 

“Were you?” she replied, in a faint tone, a momentary 
blush chasing away the pallor from her cheeks. Did she 
divine the object of his visit? Something in his manner 
might have suggested that it was not intended to be a 
mere formal call. His ardent look sent a thrill rather 
of sorrow than joy into her heart. And her limbs be- 
gan to tremble as she slowly walked by his side. 

“Yes, Miss Hartley — Maude, let me call you,” and 
without waiting for her consent, perhaps taking it for 
granted, he went on: ‘Wes, Maude, I was coming to 
see you, but my tongue was tied for a time. However, 
now I am free to tell you all I feel, free to tell you I 
love you and ask you give me this,” and he took hold 
of one of her slender hands and looked pleadingly and 
lovingh" into her face. 

Maude allowed her hand to remain for a moment 
passive in his, as she stood with eyes drooping to the 

J 

ground. 

Then, gently disengaging her hand, and raising her 
eyes slowly and sorrowfully to his, she whispered, in 


A POOR RELATION. 209 

accents faint and mournful almost to despair: “No, 
Eustace, it can never be as you wish. I cannot be your 
wife.” 

Eustace stood as if petrified. For a time speech failed 
him utterly. Heaven seemed to have faded away from 
his eyes. “Not— be— my — wife, dearest?” he stammered 
out, at length. 

For a moment Maude stood silent, her eyes bent on 
the ground, and, except for the heaving of her bosom, 
motionless as a statue. 

“I cannot be your wife,” she echoed, in hard, me- 
chanical tones. 

“But surely, dearest love,” he began, in soft yet 
earnest tones, “I was not mistaken in the old times — 
you did love me once?” and there was a pathetic 
tremor in his voice which thrilled her very soul. 

“Eustace, why distress yourself — and — and me — with 
such questions? Is it not enough to know — ” 

“Enough to know that I was either mistaken or — de- 
ceived in the past?” he asked, in passionate tones. 
“Enough to know that you have changed, and that I 
have lost you. But forgive me, dearest, if my words 
have pained you,” he added, more gently, as he noticed 
the agonized expression that came into her eyes. Then, 
once more, seizing her hands in his strong clasp, he ex- 
claimed, in tones of passionate entreaty : “Tell me, love, 
that it is my ears that have deceived me now, and that 
you are still true, still unchanged and that you love me 
now as I swear you did, not six short months ago.” 

“Leave me, Eustace,” murmured poor Maude, “leave 
me now and forever, for I can give you no other answer. ” 
And once more she uttered in faint, mechanical tones 
the answer fatal to his hopes. 


210 


A POOR RELATION. 


“It can never be as you wish. I cannot be your wife.’’ 

“Tell me, at least, what has come between us, Maude,” 
urged Eustace, looking intently at her. 

“Tell you?” she began, slowly, as if doubtful of his 
meaning. Then suddenly, as if the whole force of 
his question had just flashed across her mind, she gasped 
out almost in shrieking tones: “Tell you that! Tell you 
that I Never, oh, never! Ask me anything but that.” 
Then, as if to hide some frightful sight from her eyes, 
she covered her face with her hands. Then the sobs 
came quick and convulsive, as if from a heart break- 
ing with emotion, and the bitter, scalding tears burst 
through the fingers half covering her face. 

Eustace looked at her aghast with horror and over- 
wlielmed with pain at her distress. 

What was this terrible thing that had come between 
them ? 

Presently she grew calmer ; the fierceness of the storm 
was over. A few moments more, and then she held out 
her hand. 

“Farewell, Eustace,” she whispered, in tremulous ac- 
cents, “farewell, dearest Ihve, and forever. Heaven 
itself cannot remove the barrier that has come between 
us.” 

Then, without another word,' she turned and left him. 

As if rooted to the spot, and altogether powerless to 
follow her, Eustace saw her walk away with slow, un- 
certain steps. In a few moments a bend of the road hid 
her from his sight. 

He was alone. And it seemed to him as if the gates of 
Paradise were closed upon him. For she had said 
Heaven itself could not remove the barrier which had 
come between them. 


A POOR RELATION. 


211 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

UNCLE jack’s questions. 

“He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature.” 

— Longfellow. 

“Heaven itself cannot remove the barrier which has 
come between us.” 

These words of Maude’s, uttered in heartbroken ac- 
cents, rang in Eustace Ingham’s ears again and again 
as he slowly walked away from her presence, and they 
sounded the death-knell of his hopes. They were fateful 
words against which there seemed no appeal. The girl’s 
face, as she uttered them, plainly told him that. They 
had come from a heart overflowing with despair ! 
“Dearest love, farewell.” 

Yes, loving, and yet renouncing her love, she had 
sent him away. Fate was cruel to them both. 

Several times as he walked home to Marburn Hall 
the impulse came upon him to retrace his steps and fly 
back to Maude. He had yielded too easily ; too coldly 
urged his suit. He had bowed to her decision as readily as 
if it cost him nothing to obey. Oh, he had played the part 
of a cold, careless, hard-hearted lover— the pale reflec- 
tion of one who really loved ! Why did he not plead in 
warmer terms? Insist upon knowing the full meaning 
of those words that parted them? Drag the secret from 
her? Why, to know the mystery might be to find it 
had lost its mysteriousness ! 


212 


A POOK RELATION. 


“Heaven itself cannot remove the barrier.” 

No child’s words. But wrung from the heart of a 
woman, loving, true and suffering. 

They pronounced an irrevocable decision. The stars 
in their courses had fought against them both. 

The next day he called upon Uncle Jack at Willow 
Cottage. 

“Mr. Hartley, I have come to say good-b}^,” he said; 
“to-morrow I leave Marburn and England. Marburri 
forever. ’ ’ 

“Marburn forever!” echoed Hartley, in amazement, 
looking incredulously at the young man. 

“Yes, forever. I have no longer any ties here. My mother 
and sister will have gone in a few days — and the whole 
neighborhood has grown distasteful to me. The old 
family home has slipped away from me ; . my father 
came to an untimely end here; and now — and now — ” 
Here he broke off, and looking earnestly at Uncle 
Jack, asked: “Can you divine the last blow that fate 
has inflicted upon me?” 

Tlie other hesitated a moment. Then he said, slowly : 
“Well, as I know what your hopes were — ” 

“Yes, what my hopes were. You speak rightly,” in- 
terrupted Eustace ; “they were, they belong to the past ; 
with the present and future they have notliing to do. ’ ’ 

“I am not altogether unprepared for this,” said Hart- 
ley, after reflecting a few moments, “for lately Maude 
has looked as if all her hopes of happiness were buried. 
What has come between you young people? I %vas 
hoping to see both my nieces happily married within 
a short time. I gather from your words, ay, and looks, 
too, that you have not changed.” 

“No, I have not changed,” replied Eustace, shaking 


A POOR RELATION. 


213 


his head as if to emphasize the words, and speaking in 
accents full of sadness. 

‘‘And if I know Maude at all,” went on Hartley, 
“fickleness is no part of her character.” 

“Nor, as I believe, has Miss Hartley changed. But she 
spoke yesterday of some insurmountable obstacle to our 
marriage. There, I can tell you no more at present,” 
Eustace continued, noticing Hartley’s look of surprise. 
“In fact she said no more than that herself. To use her 
own words, ‘Heaven itself cannot remove the barrier.’ ” 

“This is verj^ mysterious,” said Hartley; “but I can 
give you no explanation of" Maude’s conduct. I know 
nothing of any obstacle. At the same time she is not 
the girl to conjure up difiiculties. ” 

Here they were interrupted by the arrival of George 
Turner and Grace Hartley, both looking the picture of 
happiness, as Eustace thought. 

“Well, and how is the furnishing progressing?” asked 
Uncle Jack, smiling. “How much longer are you good 
folks going to be over the choice of your household goods? 
Let me see, you began six months ago, didn’t you?” 

“No, indeed, not quite so long as that,” cried Grace. 
“You see we go about our work on certain definite 
rules.” 

“Ah, on a definite system; I see. Well, I should like 
to hear it. One is never too old to learn.” 

“Oh, I’ll explain it in a moment,” replied Grace, 
merrily. “In the first place we don’t furnish by con- 
tract. We don’t go in for the hire system, and we won’t 
have suites, no, not at any price. We’ve been fortunate 
enough to get a lovely old-fashioned house, and I insist 
upon having old-fashioned furniture. ” 

“And supposing Turner insisted upon having furniture 


214 


A POOR RELATION. 


new-fashioned, quite up to date, and presumably ugly?” 
said Uncle Jack. 

‘Then we should quarrel,” solemnly protested Grace, 
clasping her hands in mock despair. “But there, I don’t 
think I ever could have fallen in love with a man who 
had such awful tastes. And what a comfort it is to 
think George has exquisite tastes !” 

“I think it’s a comfort George isn’t given to self-con- 
ceit, or I’m sure you would spoil him with such gross 
flattery,” replied Hartley, dryly. 

“Oh, Grace doesn’t mean half she says,” exclaimed 
George, laughing; “in private, I can assure you, she 
takes it out of me very considerably.” 

“Oh, fie, George, don’t tell tales out of school !” cried 
Grace, holding out her finger in a menacing manner. 
“By the by, uncle, what do you think,” she added, ex- 
citedly, “I had such a handsome present this morning. 
From a stranger, too. A hundred-pound note ! It came 
folded in a sheet of paper, inscribed : ‘A wedding gift 
from a friend of your father’s.’ ” 

“All, poor Gerald made many friends in his lifetime,” 
replied Uncle Jack ; “he cast his bread on many waters.” 

“And after many days I am finding some of it,” said 
Grace, in a low tone. 

“How happy they seem!” sighed Eustace, when the 
lovers had taken tlieir leave; “and they deserve to be 
happy,” he added, heartily. “Turner has been a won- 
derfully good son and Miss Hartley an equally good 
daughter.” 

“And niece,” added Uncle Jack. “I shall never forget 
what a hearty welcome she gave her poor relation.” 

Eustace gave him a somewhat quizzical look ; of late 
the young man had seriously begun to doubt whether 


A POOR RELATION. 


215 


Uncle Jack was entitled to pose as a poor relation, A 
secret confided to others can hardly remain a secret long ; 
.the truth generally leaks out] sooner or later. And the 
old family lawyer had given him a broad hint that the 
new owner of the Marburn estate was not quite a stranger 
in Marburn. 

But Hartley bore the young man’s look- unflinchingly. 

“Shall we see you at the wedding?’’ he asked. “It 
comes off some time in April, I think. Easter week.’’ 

Eustace shook his head. “No, I expect to be far away 
from England in April. As soon as ever my people are 
settled in their new home I am going abroad.” 

“I’m very sorry for all this, Ingham,” said Uncle Jack, 
as he shook hands warmly with him at parting. 

For some time after his departure Hartley sat ponder- 
ing over Maude’s conduct. He wearied his brain in 
vain, endeavoring to conjecture the nature of the obstacle 
which she asserted rendered her marriage with her lover 
impossible. He was averse from questioning the girl 
herself ; to do so might seem to be betraying Ingham’s 
confidence. It seemed, moreover, useless labor. Secret 
motives, carefully concealed from a lover, would scarcely 
be confided to himself. No, he must wait. Perhaps time 
might unravel the mystery, or indeed remove the ob- 
stacle itself, insuperable as it might seem at present. 

Barely a month after Ingham’s departure from IMar- 
burn Hartley heard some rumors, faint but startling, 
which seemed to throw a little light on the mystery 
which enshrouded Maude’s refusal of Ingham’s suit. 

A whisper went round the place that his nephew, 
Gerald, had been out in the neighborhood of Marden 
Spinney on the night when Squire Ingham was shot. 
Nay, further, that he had been seen returning from the 


216 


A FOOK RELATION. 


fatal spot shortly after the squire had received the 
wound which eventually proved mortal. 

Good-natured friends brought these reports to Uncle 
Jack. It is very remarkable how extremely good-natured 
some friends prove to be in hurrying to us with bad 
news. They are not always so ready with good news, 
probably imagining that the latter will run no risk of 
being spoiled by keeping. 

‘T thought you might like to know, don’t you know,” 
is the well-worn preface to the heralding of some dis- 
aster. 

Some of these good-natured folk at Marburn further 
intimated that some people thought it a pity Gerald 
• should have left home on the very morning after the 
sad occurrence had taken place. Of course it was merely 
a startling coincidence ; startling, and under the circum- 
stances, unfortunate. And then, how extremely un- 
fortunate it was that the young man had been heard 
to utter such dreadful threats against the squire ! For 
people would talk, and try and make two and two 
amount to five, or even more. Ah, it was a hard, un- 
charitable world! And they sadly shook their heads 
over the double share of original sin some people seemed 
to have inherited. 

Secretly, for a time at least. Uncle Jack laughed at 
these reports. That persons should suspect Gerald, even 
for a moment, seemed to him incredible. The suspicion 
was too monstrous. Gerald had his faults, grievous 
ones, too, but that he could be guilty of a murderous 
assault upon an old man, why, the mere supposition was 
utterly preposterous ! It was by no means certain that 
he had left home that night, and, even if that could be 
proved, to connect his presence near Harden Spinney 


A POOR RELATION. 


217 


with a cold-blooded murder was surely the lowest deptli 
to which the most slanderous and malicious person could 
possibly descend ! 

One statement could be easily verified, or rather dis- 
proved. It would be easy to ascertain whether Gerald 
had been away from home in the early hours of that 
fatal night. Maude would soon settle the question. He 
was sufficiently acquainted with the habits and customs 
of Jiis relations at Ivy Cottage to know that Maude gen- 
erally used to sit up until Gerald returned home, how- 
ever late he might be. 

The veiy first time lie found her alone, therefore, he 
said: “Maude, my dear, I want to ask you a question, 
a very simple one,” his tone was one of feigned careless- 
ness. 

“Yes, uncle, what is it?” quietly asked the girl, look- 
ing up from her work. 

“You remember the night before Gerald left home?” 
and he looked inquiringly at her. 

Maude started. The little jcolor she had left her 
cheeks, while the work she was busy with fell from 
her nerveless fingers. Looking up at him with the eyes 
of a startled fawn, she faintly murmured: “Yes, I re- 
member that night — very well.” 

“Do you remember about what time Gerald went to 
bed?” he asked again. 

“I think it was a little before four,” she replied, still 
in the same faint voice. She was too truthful to say 
that he had gone upstairs at eleven. That would have 
been the truth''as far as it went. But she knew that the 
suppression of the fact that he came downstairs again 
would have made it in reality a lie. 

“And did lie say where he had been spending the even- 


218 


A POOR RELATION. 


ing — and night, too, I suppose we should say?” con- 
tinued her uncle. 

‘ ‘Uncle, ” said Maude, rising from her chair and placing 
her hand upon his shoulder, looking at the same time 
pleadingly up at him, “you must not ask me any more 
questions, for I can’t tell you anything more.” Then 
her lips began to quiver and the tears came into her 
eyes. 

Uncle Jack saw it would be both unfair and cruel to 
press her any further. It was plain that it had cost 
her exquisite suffering to answer even the other very 
simple question he had put to her. She was fearful of 
betraying secrets which concerned another, the missing 
Gerald. 

“Very well, my dear,” said her uncle, at length, “I 
won’t press you any further. But I am sorry you don’t 
feel at liberty to trust me.” 

Maude shook her head. She would not trust herself 
to utter another word; unwittingly she might reveal 
more than she intended. * 

It seemed useless prolonging the interview, and so 
shortly after Uncle Jack left her, much to her relief. 


A POOR RELATION. 


219 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
crossland’s wooing. 

“ I have loved you night and day 
For nlany weary months.” 

— Shakespeare. Troilus and Cressida. 

“The love that follows us sometime is our trouble.” 

—Shakespeare. Macbeth: 

Maude had said farewell to her lover forever, and 
farewell, too, to her young life’s happiness. From that 
hour days came and passed away bringing no respite to 
her grief. There could be no respite while memory sur- 
vived. Each morning was ushered in with a hopeless 
dawn. Never could she and Eustace exchange vows of 
mutual love, or hope to be more than friends. Nay, it 
might be they would never meet again. For between 
them lay his father’s blood, shed by the hand of her own 
brother. Yes, Gerald, her own idolized brother, albeit 
unwittingly, had done the deed which separated them 
forever. 

Oh ! the thought was agonizing, and the girl wrung 
her hands in despair each time it recurred to her. One 
hasty action, guiltless in intention, had marred the hap- 
piness of three lives. 

The girl thought it was well, now that Gerald had 
left home. The sight of her pale face and looks eloquent 
in their silence of her bitter grief might have driven 
him to despair, the despair bred of remorse. No, it was 


220 


A POOR RELATION. 


well he had gone ; they were each spared the anguish of 
seeing the other’s grief. 

And Maude had a sorrow’s crown of sorrow in hearing 
her mother harshly criticise her lover’s conduct. For 
when Mrs. Hartley at last perceived that he and Maude 
cared for each other she was pleased, as she could not 
fail to be, and just in proportion to her pleasure was her 
disappointment when his attentions ceased.. Of course 
during the squire’s lifetime his tongue might have been 
tied, his actions fettered. But now, when all obstacles 
to his speaking out were removed, he had gone away 
and made no sign. 

Maude had to bear each cruel -vyord in silence. And 
every word uttered against her lover’s honesty and good 
faith seemed to pierce her very heart. In defending the 
absent one she feared she might unconsciously be led to 
betray Gerald’s secret — Gerald’s secret to his own mother ! 
For her sake and his she must endure this additional 
sorrow, and to shield the guilty must allow the inno- 
cent’ to be unjustly accused without uttering one word 
in his defense. 

And there was the additional pang of daily witnessing 
Grace’s happiness, and comparing her lot, so full of 
brightness and hope, with the fate measured out to her- 
self. 

As time passed on, Maude had another cause for anx- 
iety. Crossland became a frequent visitor at the Cottage, 
and very quietly and unobtrusively, but still unmistak- 
ably, he began to show his devotion to her. It was with 
feelings of intense disquietude that she perceived that 
her tender, sympathizing friend was fast turning into an 
ardent lover. The mutual possession of Gerald’s un- 
happy secret had necessarily become a bond of union 


A POOR RELATION. 


221 


between them. And her position was becoming a diffi- 
cult one. To check the ardor of one whom she thought 
so true and kind a friend of her own and of poor Ger- 
ald’s, without paining him and seeming most ungrate- 
ful, was hard indeed. 

One day, he came in the little drawing-room at Ivy 
Cottage, when she happened to be alone there, with 
what he called .a budget of good news. Gerald was 
safe, and for once in his life most usefully employed, 
though she was not to ask where he was nor what he 
was doing, for it would be safer for her not to know. 

Maude could quite understand this. It had been so 
difficult to keep what she knew already from the knowl- 
edge of the others. And, oh, how glad she was to know 
that he was really^ safe and hard at work ! 

‘'You haA-e been so good to me,” she said, gratefully, 
looking up at Crossland more kindly than was wise. 

His face lighted up with hope. “And now,” he said, 
gently, “may the bringer of good tidings talk to you a 
little about himself? Will you listen to me a short time? 
I’ll be very brief.” 

“Oil, yes, yes, ” answered the girl, still so wrapped in the 
consideration of poor Gerald and herself that she forgot 
lier newly acquired caution. “You have been so good, 
so I'ery good to us both. And you have his gun quite 
safe, haven’t you? And wouldn’t it be better to de- 
stroy it? Or perhaps — yes, wouldn’t it be better to put 
it back in its gun-case here? Then if it should be in- 
quired for Ave could show them it in triumph.” 

“It- is, indeed, most A^aluable evidence against him,” 
said Crossland, Avith emphasis. “But you can trust it 
in my hands, Maude, can you not?” 

“Oh, yes,” slie replied; “of course,” and she vA’-as still 


222 


A POOR RELATION. 


thinking so earnestly about Gerald that she* did not no- 
tice her friend called her by her Christian name. 

“Maude,” he repeated, and now she started a little 
and looked at him in surprise. He seemed excited, and 
very much in earnest. She could not meet his gaze, it 
seemed so full of power. “I will tell you all in a few 
minutes,” he went on. “I am a lonely, lonely man, all 
my life I have been alone. Surrounded with your dear 
ones' you can have no conception, Maude, what my utter 
loneliness has been. An only child, with an invalid 
mother, wrapped up in herself and the consideration of 
her health, and a father who was stern, and whom I 
feared more than loved until death took him from us, 
I have always lived a solitary, mournful life. And then 
I saw one whom I learned to love.” Here he paused and 
looked earnestly at Maude. “Love and hope changed my 
life,” he continued; “a future spent with her seemed 
heaven, after my lonely, unloved, miserable past. And 
then — and then — ” his tone became sad as he slowly ut- 
tered the words, “before I could speak another came 
between us, and the cup of happiness was dashed from 
my lips. Oh, merciful heavens!” he exclaimed, clasp- 
ing his hands, “what torments did I suffer to see them 
together, smiling, happy in each other’s love, while the 
brightness and joy had gone out of my life! Before me 
lay a future, cold, cheerless, hopeless, with no respite to 
my grief but the grave. Often I wished that I had 
never been born. Sometimes even the temptation came 
strong upon me to end — ” 

“No, no,” cried Maude, in terror-stricken tones, hastily 
interrupting him, “do not, do not say that,” and she laid 
her hand in her earnest entreaty upon his arm and 
looked beseechingly at him. 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Then better thoughts came to me,” he went on, 
mournfully. “I lived on to suffer and suffer in silence. 
My love was altogether unsuspected by her who seemed 
lost to me forever.” He paused for a moment or two, 
and then continued, in more cheerful tones: “At last. 
Fate, as if in pity for my grief, proved kind, and raised 
a barrier between the others — a barrier, terrible, insur- 
mountable.” 

“No, no,” cried Maude, wringing her hands despair- 
ingly, in her horror at hearing her own fate thus pro- 
nounced by another; “no, not insurmountable. Heaven 
will be merciful.” 

“Heaven itself cannot remove the barrier,” inter- 
rupted Crossland, in accents solemn and fateful, “/or 
between them lies his^father' s blood!” 

With a shriek of mingled horror and despair Maude 
sank back on the couch, covering her face with her 
hands as if to shut out the terrible sight his words 
had conj ured up. Her own words in his mouth ! How 
solemnly they seemed to confirm the doom which she 
herself had pronounced against her own life’s happiness ! 

She had instinctively divined the meaning of half his 
story and its application to herself, but of its full mean- 
ing she seemed oblivious. The thought of Crossland’s 
misery had passed away from her mind at the bitter 
recollection of her own. 

He directed her attention to the point she had for the 
moment forgotten. “Maude, dearest,” he said, placing 
himself beside her and speaking in a tender, sympa- 
thetic manner, “I see you fully understand the import 
of my words. You 'will not prove less kind than Fate? 
You will come into my solitary, mournful life, to chee'i 
and brighten it with your presence ?” 


224 


A POOR RELATION. 


Maude could not fail to understand him now, and a 
nervous shudder passed over her as he paused, awaiting 
her answer. 

How could she soften her refusal? How best say no? 
Say no, and not seem too hard and cruel to one who had 
proved such a kind, sympathetic friend in her bitter 
anguish? 

“Is — is this a time to think — of — of future happiness 
when the present — ” she began, but the words seemed 
to choke her, she could not finish her sentence. 

“When the present seems so dark?” said Crossland, 
hastily. “Together, dearest Maude, we will make the 
future happier. We will su^fenon Gerald home, and 
together make life brighter for him. Forgive me, 
Maude, if I seem to choose the wrong time for speaking 
to you, but I lost you once through idly waiting. Let 
my love, once disappointed, plead for my forgiveness. 
I dare not run the risk of once more being too late. ’ ’ 

“Mr. Crossland,” said Maude, shaking her head mourn- 
fully, “love and I have said farewell forever; love 
such as you speak of I have none to give. Would you 
wish to marry one who has nothing to offer in return 
for what you give? Nothing but a heart full of sorrow 
and vain regrets and unsatisfied longings?” 

“Yes, yes, I would,” eagerly cried Crossland, “be- 
cause I love you. At first, like a starving man, I should 
be 'satisfied with but little. A little, did I say? How 
much is that little? Your presence in. my lonely home; 
the sight of your sweet face ; the music of your voice ; 
the clasp of your hand; your kindly interest in my 
daily life; the thought that none could part us; my 
hope that in time you would learn to love me; your 
pity that you did not. With all this I should feel like 


A POOR RELATION. 


225 


a man sitting on the threshold of Paradise, waiting in 
sure confidence till the gates were opened. For, dearest 
Maude, remember, love begets love, and I could wait 
patiently until you opened the gates with the words, 

‘I love you.’ ” ^ 

Maude was both amazed and terrified with his passion- 
ate vehemence, so totally opposed to the cold, impassive 
demeanor which usually distinguished him. 

Shrinking from him, as if fearful of being carried 
away by his impetuous pleading, she murmured: “No, 
no, Mr. Crossland, it can never be as you wish. I can 
never marry you. ’ ’ 

“Maude, dearest,” pleaded he, looking earnestly at 
her, “I will not take that as your final answer. I have 
surprised, startled you, my love carried me away. But 
do not bid me abandon all hope, do not send me from 
you in despair. Give me at least permission to try and 
win you?” 

“No, no, j'ou must not ask that. I cannot. I — I — dare 
not give you any hope,” she hastily cried, fearful of 
giving him even the slightest encouragement. “We 
can never be more than friends.” 

“You call me a friend, and yet deny me the opportu- 
nity which the veriest stranger might expect,” said 
Crossland, somewhat bitterly. 

“Yes, I must do so; for your sake and mine. For I 
can never, change and give you another answer.” 

There w^as a decision and firmness in the girl’s manner 
which showed Crossland that all his pleading would be 
in vain. But he did not despair of ultimate success. He 
did not expect to win by fierce, passionate appeals or 
by violent protestations of his love. He had another 
last resource. 


226 


A POOR RELATION. 


'‘Is that your final decision, Maude?” he asked. 

“Yes,” answered she, in low but decided tones. “And 
could — how could I ever dream of love and happiness,” 
she went on, her thoughts reverting once more to her 
brother, “with Gerald’s future so uncertain — his very 
safety, perhaps, trembling in the balance?” 

“Perhaps it is because of his safety that I would ask 
you to pause and reconsider your decision,” said Cross- 
land, quietly, but with great meaning in his tone. 

“What do you mean?” cried Maude, springing from 
her seat and looking at him in terrified amazement ; “his 
safety has nothing to do with my decision. Mr. Cross- 
land, pray explain yourself.” 

“I mean this,” replied Crossland, speaking in calm, 
dispassionate accents, which formed a marked contrast 
with his late excited manner. “I mean this. Your 
brother’s secret is not solely in my possession; the 
proofs against him are known, have all along been 
known by another. He is poor. The reward which 
he might earn is large, and therefore tempting. It 
is only my influence that has kept him silent so long ; 
but whenever — ” 

“You have many moods, many ways of wooing,” 
cried Maude, bitterlj'', looking at him in disgusted hor- 
ror; “but lately you pleaded, and now you threaten. 
Then you asked for my love, now you would buy it 
with your silencjg. To gain your ends you would even 
betray your friend and the helpless girl who trusted 
in you !” 

“Excuse me,” calmly replied Crossland, “you entirely 
misunderstand the situation. I utter no threats. I 
whisper no word of betrayal. In fact, I make no sign 


A POOR RELATION. 


227 


by w6rd or deed ; I simply stand aside— and— and allow 
matters to take their course. ’ ’ 

“No, you are too honorable to betray your friend,” 
cried Maude, scornfully, “you let others do your low, 
miserable work ! And this is the man who called him- 
self my friend,” she went on, in indignant tones, “who 
came to me with the offer of pretended sympathy and 
protestations of friendship ! Who, just now, loudly ex- 
pressed his love; who, knowing I loved another, im- 
plored me to marry him, and swore he would be content 
with the empty husks of an assumed affection. Oh, tliat 
men should be so cruel, so base and false, and that wo- 
men should be such fools as to believe and trust them !” 
And then poor Maude, overcome with her feelings, sank 
back once more upon the couch, while the bitter sobs 
came quick and convulsive from her throbbing bosom. 

For a moment or two Crossland stood looking at her 
in silence, but not unmoved.* Cold, impassive and 
selfish as he was, just then a feeling of pity for her 
distress thrilled his soul. But he could not, would not 
draw back. For never had she appeared so lovely and 
so woi'thy of admiration and respect as in the last few 
moments. At one instant her eyes flashing with indig- 
nation, hurling at him scathing words of scornful re- 
proach ; the next, overcome by the very intensity of 
her righteous anger, bathed in tears, a woman con- 
scious of her helplessness and impotent in her distress. 

“You ask me why I seem so cruel, so unmanly?” he 
cried, at length. “You say I have no feelings! Deny 
me the power of loving because I can appear selfish and 
hard! You tell me my protestations of love were 
empty, idle words, that I was feigning a love I can 
never feel ! You wonder how one who looks like a 


228 


A POOR RELATION. 


man can prove so unmanly? It is because I love you 
and will not lose you, Maude, that I can stoop so low ; 
it is because I love you and will not lose you that I seem 
so harsh and unkind ! You tell me you love, and loving, 
you know what it is to lose. I have loved, too, and I 
have known what it is to lose. But I love you now in 
spite of your hard words, in spite of your scorn, in 
spite of your reproaches, in spite of your shrinking 
from me — yes, in spite of all that has passed, I love 
you a thousand times more than ever, and, now you 
are once more free, I will not lose you again — or, if I 
do — ” he broke off abruptly and said: “But, no, I will 
not even think that possible.” Then, low-ering his voice 
from the excited, strident tones in which he had been 
speaking, he almost whispered in her ear, as he clasped 
her hand in his. “Dearest Maude, send me but one little 
word bidding me hope, and in the same hour you shall 
have in your hands the proofs of Gerald's guilt. His 
gun, his pocket-handkerchief and a letter addressed to 
him, all of which were picked up within a few yards 
from where the fatal shot was fired.” 

The next moment Maude was alone. 


A POOR RELATION. 


229 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AN EXPECTED ENGAGEMENT. 

“ . . . In all things 

Mindful not of herself, but ^bearing the burden of others.” 

—Longfellow. Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

Crossland went home flushed with a sense of coming 
victory. He felt convinced that Maude must yield. 
Thoroughly believing, as she did, that her brother’s 
fate was in her hands, she would not, dared not per- 
severe in her refusal to marry him. And, indeed, to 
become his wife merely meant carrying her self-sacrifice 
a little further. Nay, rather, it might be the first step in 
that hard, narrow path ; for the sacrifice of her love to 
Ingham was in no sense of the word voluntary; stern, 
imperious fate had made that necessary. He knew that 
her terrified imagination conjured up the direst possible 
consequences for Gerald should his guilt be brought 
home to him. For there was only his own word to show 
that his deed had not been willfully committed, out of 
revenge for the insults he had formerly received from 
the late squire. 

Yes, knowing the girl’s apprehensions — to which he 
had but added new grounds in his fabricated story of 
the discovery of the handkerchief and letter, found al- 
most on the fatal spot — and fully cognizant of her love 
for Gerald, he felt convinced that she could find no way 
of escape from his demands. She was in the toils, a 
captive, doomed to submit to his will. 


230 


•A POOR RELATION. 


tions of love were not mere mock heroics, nor specimens 
of consummate acting, proofs of the skill of a dis- 
sembler, gaudy tinsel used to trick out a sham love 
and give it the semblance of genuineness and sincerity. 

No, he had indeed spoken the truth in saying that al- 
most from the first Maude had won his heart. And she 
liad done that although, as he had shown in his confes- 
sion to his cousin, Holmes, self-interest had actuated him 
in his coming forward to act the part of lover. He 
had always admired her, but at first this same self-in- 
terest had prevented his coming forward, when, how- 
ever, by the discovery of her uncle’s wealth, her. prospects 
seemed altogether different from what he thought them 
— the case was altogether different — and he had allowed 
himself to yield to his real feeling for Maude. Constant 
intercourse with her, the almost daily contemplation of 
her charms, an intimate knowledge of her real char- 
acter—all this had gradually enthralled him. Passion, 
if not love, had overpowered him and had become the 
dominant factor in his life. To win the girl he would 
have sacrificed everything he held most dear. 

It is not easy to stir the depths of natures like Cross- 
land— calm, cold and apparently passionless ; but a feel- 
ing once aroused and allowed ample scope for develop- 
ment grows with terrific force and becomes appalling 
in its intensity and power. During long years dormant, 
quiescent, and perchance giving no sign of its existence, 
or even possibility, within the soul, it has been gathering 
strength and material for a rapid increase wdien some 
external touch awakes it from its long-continued torpor. 
Maude was the first woman who had ever evoked in 
Crossland’s heart the feeling, of love. That feeling had 


A POOR RELATION. 


231 


Again Maude passed a sleepless night. She could not 
banish from her mind the scene of the past day, nor for- 
get that she stood on the threshold of the great crisis of 
her life. Her life? Alas! not hers alone. Another’s 
welfare depended upon the decision which to-morrow 
she would have to make. 

Vainly she cast about for some means of escape. For 
she must save Gerald. Yes, that must come first. But 
how ? Ah, if only Gerald had been perfectly frank with 
her ! If he had fully trusted^ her with the knowledge of 
his whereabouts she might now have disclosed to him 
the treachery and baseness of the man who pretended 
to be his friend. And Gerald might now be fleeing hun- 
dreds of miles away, where he might live in security and 
peace. And she, too, would have been safe 1 

But she was powerless to send him one word. 

No, there seemed but one way of saving him. She 
must yield to Crossland’s wishes; give herself to him 
who had become her master. Save Gerald by the sacri- 
fice of herself. 

“And after all,” thought the poor girl, as a sense of 
the utter dreariness of 'her life came over her, “what 
did it matter how or where that life was passed? Since 
she and Eustace had parted forever, happiness could 
never be her lot.” She had dreamed her dream; the 
awakening had come, bitter, stern and devoid of hope. 

Henceforth she must live on a dreary existence, cheered 
only by the consolation that in her path of self-sacrifice 
she had humbly followed the footsteps of One, Who, to 
save others, could not save Himself. 

Yes, she would save Gerald; and, moreover, save 
Eustace the bitter pain of knowing that her brother had 


233 


A POOR RELATION. 


The next morning she sent Crossland a note contain- 
ing these words : 

“It must be as* you desire. M. H. “ 

An hour later she received from him a parcel. Too 
well she knew what it contained. Shuddering, with 
nervous, trembling fingers, she opened it and took out 
the detached pieces of Gerald’s gun and carefully placed 
them in his gun-case. There were not tell-tale spots of 
rust or mud upon it ; she noticed that with satisfaction. 

The other proofs of Gerald’s guilt, as she imagined 
them — a pocket-handkerchief and an old note addressed 
to Gerald, which the latter had carelessly left one day on 
Crossland’s table — were speedily consumed by the flames. 
Then she breathed more freely. 

Crossland lost no.time in coming to ask Mrs. Hartley’s 
consent to his engagement with her daughter. For that 
same afternoon he came over to Ivy Cottage. 

Mrs. Hartley could scarcely conceal her astonishment 
at hearing his proposal. She had slowly come to the 
conclusion that there was an attachment between Eus- 
tace Ingham and Maude. That belief still existed, al- 
though Eustace had left Marburn without formally 
declaring himself. But what could she do? She 
couldn’t very well dismiss *one suitor by hinting that 
she had been expecting a similar proposal from another. 
It was plain that his mission to her had been sanctioned 
by Maude herself. It seemed, therefore, also plain that 
Maude no longer cared for Eustace, or that he no longer 
cared for her. At any rate Maude was old enough to 
know lier own mind. And as Mr. Crossland was in every 
way eligible - for a son-in-law she had no valid reason 


A POOR RELATION. 


233 


for withholding her consent— a consent which the lover 
asked for and received in a very calm, matter-of-fact 
way, thus leading her to form the conclusion, erroneous 
as far as he was concerned, that the two were going to 
be engaged, or possibly married, before they had been 
sweethearts. For that was how she expressed it, with 
a feeling of disappointment. Because, matter-of-fact as 
she was, she, like every other woman, liked a little ro- 
mance. 

V 

Maude received the congratulations and good wishes 
of her family very quietly, giving them no encourage- 
ment to ask for her confidence. Indeed there was some- 
thing in her manner which effectually checked all 
comment or expression of opinion upon her choice. 

Grace, indeed, attempted to regain the confidence 
which, for some time back, she was painfully aware 
Maude had withheld from her. And the partial estrange- 
ment had caused the elder sister intense sorrow, es- 
pecially as she could not help seeing that Maude’s 
usually cheerful manner and happy looks had com- 
pletely gone. She looked pale, thin, worn and mis- 
erable. 

One evening, when they went upstairs to bed, Grace 
felt as if she could bear it no longer, and so going across 
to her sister’s little room, she entered and, throwing her 
arm round her waist, whispered, gently ‘Maude dear- 
est, are you quite sure you are doing right?” 

“Yes— quite— quite right,” replied the younger girl, 
hurriedly, although the shudder which passed over her 
seemed to give the direct lie to her words. 

“I thought, dearest, nay, I hoped that— that things 
would have been so different,” stammered Grace, some- 
what incoherently, looking wistfully into Maude’s face. 


234 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Did you, Grace?” she replied, with assumed cheer- 
fulness; “don’t you know that thoughts and wishes 
often go by contraries? Yours, dearest, in regard to 
your engagement are the happy, happy exception tliat 
serves to prove the rule,” and she affectionately kissed 
her sister’s blushing cheek. 

“But your own wishes, Maude?” questioned Grace; 
anxiously. 

“My own wishes, dearest? My own wishes are that you 
may always be as happy as you look, ^nd — deserve to 
be,” rejoined Maude, evasively, as she turned away, 
plainly anxious to avoid further interrogations. 

Grace made no further attempt to force her confidence. 

“You mustn’t expect me to congratulate you, Maude,” 
cried Uncle Jack, bluntly, the first time he met his niece 
after hearing of her engagement. “No, no, you’ve chosen 
the wrong man for that.” 

“I don’t ask for any one’s congratulations, uncle,” re- 
plied Mau'de, quietly, lifting her eyes with sorrowful re- 
proach to his. 

“Don’t you, child? That sounds bad, very bad,” and 
he shook liis head. “But tell me this,” he went on, “are 
you going to marry Mr. Crossland of your own free 
will?” 

“Isn’t this a free country, uncle?” replied Maude, 
playfully. “Do you really think my mother would 
try to force my inclinations?” 

“Well, I should hope not,” he said, in a tone of great 
dissatisfaction. “I don’t mean to say you’re afraid of 
being locked up, or starved, or for that matter being in 
any way ill used if you refuse to carry out this engage- 
ment; but there are other ways of compulsion.” 

“What I am doing I am doing entirely by my own 


A POOR RELATION. 


235 


free will,” hastily replied Maude. “Mother herself was 
a little surprised when she heard the news.” 

“Then that makes matters all the worse !” cried he, in 
3^ii?ry astonishment. “To play fast and loose with one 
man, and then chuck him overboard at the last moment 
for another, of your own free will ! That’s what I can’t 
understand ; especially when one of the men is Mr. Cross- 
land.” 

“You seem to forget. Uncle Jack,”* replied Maude, 
with quiet dignity, “that you are speaking of my future 
husband.” 

“Well, perhaps I did, child, perhaps I did — but more’s 
the pity. I say — more’s the pity !” and he thumped the 
floor of the sitting-room with his stick. 

“I didn’t think you would turn against me, uncle,” 
said Maude, reproachfully, her eyes filling with tears. 

“Turn against you, my dear,” hastily replied Uncle 
Jack, conscience-smitten at seeing her distress. “Why, 
you might marry — you might marry, well, any one, if 
I thought he would make you happy.” 

“Then, uncle, dear,” pleaded Maude, throwing her 
arms round his neck, “believe that my marriage will 
be all right and don’t worry yourself, and — and me by 
such talk as this.” 

“Well, Maude, my dear, if you put it so I have no 
more to say,” he rejoined, ruefully. “But mind this, 
if you find you have made a mistake don’t hesitate to 
say so, and I’ll back you out in it. I’ll back you out, 
remember that.” 

Maude kissed him, and he went away very thoughtful. 
The idea that any girl who had been loved by Eustace 
Ingham could love such a man as Crossland seemed to 
hini incredible. 


A POOR RELATION. 


‘^36 

Was it possible that Maude was in Crossland’s power? 
He remembered how great had been her distress wdieii, 
on hearing the rumors about Gerald having shot the 
late squire which were afloat, he went to her and ques- 
tioned her about his whereabouts on the night when the 
deed was done. How she begged him to ask her no more 
questions ! Was it possible she believed her brother to 
be guilty? Was she trying to screen him? Was this how 
she had got into Crossland’s power? He, if any one, 
would know about Gerald’s doings on that fatal night, 
for every one had supposed Gerald was with him all the 
next day. Was poor Maude trying to buy his silence — 
with herself? Was he using Gerald’s guilt, or what the 
girl imagined to be his guilt, as a lever to make her con- 
sent to his wishes? 

Uncle Jack had a shrewd head upon his shoulders, and 
thus he suspected pretty nearly the truth. And he was 
confident that Gerald was innocent, even though there 
might be much circumstantial evidence against him. 
Gerald had many faults : he had been an idle ne’er-do- 
well, living upon his mother and sisters, disdaining to do 
an honest man’s work in the world, and despising the 
“poor relation” who, after being tossed about the world, 
had come to make his home near them ; but, for all 
that. Uncle Jack knew that he was incapable of lifting 
up his hand against the poor old squire. 

It was cowardly of him to run away, but then things 
looked black against him, after his having threatened 
the deceased ; and moral courage was not his forte. 

But he had been severely punished for his faults, and 
Maude was suffering ; she was on the point of “paying 
dearly for his sins. Maude must be saved. 

And apparently a bad man’s wicked schemes were 


A POOR RELATION. 


237 


prospering; and that was a thing which Uncle Jack’s 
righteous soul abhorred.^ 

Long he pondered over the matter, and then he tele- 
graphed to London for a private detective. 

In a very short time indeed an experienced officer of 
the name of Birkin was sent down in answer to his 
request. • ^ 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

MR. BIRKIN MAKES DISCOVERIES. 

“A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.” 

—Shakespeare. 

As A rule the inhabitants of Marburn did not welcome 
strangers with open arms. They rather prided them- 
selves on being “clannish”; some folks called them 
“stand-offish.” Probably, however, the fact that on 
some occasions their confidence had been abused might 
have rendered them a trifle suspicious. Strangers of 
good appearance, too, had come to Marburn and gone 
leaving debts behind them. And other worse things 
than that had happened. 

And so when Mr. Birkin came to stay for a while, at 
the village inn, he was at first looked upon with some 
coldness ; but this did not last long, for soon, very soon, 
he became quite popular. Nor was this solely because 
he was an outspoken man, one who, to use his own words, 
hated mysteries. As a proof of this, within only one short 


23S 


A POOR RELATION. 


week every man, woman and child in Marburn were ac- 
quainted Mutli his whole history, as they thought it. Tliey 
could all have told you that Mr. Birkin was a butler, just 
then out of a place, enjoying himself on a legacy kindly 
left him by a master whom he had long and faithfully 
served. But Mr. Birkin had better credentials than 
mere statements on his own part, or even letters of in- 
troduction on the part of others. He had plenty of 
money, and was not averse to spending it freel3^ 
Read\' inonej" was his motto, bills were his aversion. 
So he said, and his actions gave due stability and con- 
firmation to his words. Moreover,- within reasonable 
limits, Mr. Birkin was quite prepared to do his part 
in helping to quench the perennial thirst which afflicted 
many of the good people at Marburn. And then, he 
was never weary of listening to the history of the Mai’- 
burnites, past and present. Everything concerning 
them seemed to interest him. Naturally, he soon heard 
about Squire Ingham’s death, down to the very slight- 
est details, including, of course, although this was in the 
strictest confidence, the very names of the actual 
petrators of the crime. The very names. For while 
some inclined to the belief that Gerald Hartley was the 
guilty one, others as strongly insisted that the notorious 
j)oacher Sikes was the real culprit. The main cause of 
suspicion in each case seemed to be the fact that both 
had been seen 'out late on the night of the unfortunate 
man’s death, and that both had disappeared the next 
da3^ The latter was a most damning fact. Birkin made 
up his mind to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Sikes. 
It was no extremel}' difficult task to find out hi.s in*esent 
abode. Monej- is the golden key which unlocks manj^ a 
closed door, and IMr. Sikes had -left friends behind who 


A POOR RELATION. 


239 


would sell him any time for a five-pound note. So Mr. 
Birkin was informed ; and as a matter of fact it cost 
him less than that to find out Sikes’s address. For the 
credit of human nature it must be assumed that it was 
understood that he had no particularly vital reason for 
remaining undiscovered. 

It seemed that he was enjoying the breezes of Bright- 
on, in the society of relations, poor but honest fisher- 
men. 

Birkin paid a visit to Brighton, and in due time made 
the acquaintance of Mr. Sikes. This was no difficult mat- 
ter, for he had been brought up, as it were, on the beach, 
and before migrating to Marburn had plied the trade 
of boatman, an occupation to which he always resorted 
when too much notoriety at Marburn made a change of 
residence desirable. Many a sail did Birkin enjoy in the 
society of the ex-poacher ; many a confidential chat did 
they have together. Sikes, except in the society of a 
policeman, was not at all averse to recounting his sport- 
ing expeditions. Birkin very quickly came to the con- 
clusion that Sikes was entirely innocent of all complicity 
in Squire Ingham’s murder. His acquaintance with the 
criminal classes was extensive ; he had enjoyed ample 
opportunities for observing their ways, both before, dur- 
ing and after arrest. That indefinable something — a 
mixture of terror, despair, cunning, nervous appre- 
hension, and, i)erhaps, bravado — which distinguishes 
most criminals was entirely absent in Sikes’s face. Even 
when suddenly startled he gave no sign of being in fear 
of arrest. 

One day, in a burst of confidence, Birkin stated that 
he had been enjoying the pleasures of country life at 
Marburn. 


240 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Marburn!” cried Sikes, “why, bless ’ee, I come from 
Marburn; lived there a many years.” 

“And what made you leave Marburn, Sikes?” 

“Too fond o’ sport, sir. Too fond o’ sport!” replied 
he, with a broad grin on his face. 

“I suppose you heard of Squire Ingham’s death?” said 
Birkin, looking intently at him. 

“I did, sir; and do you know he was shot the very 
night before I come away from Marburn ; and more than 
that, sir, I was out after a little sport not far from the 
hidentical spot where he was shot. There, sir, think o’ 
that. It’s wot I calls a hextraordinary coincidence, as 
they says in the papers. ” 

“And weren’t you afraid of being suspected? I mean 
your running away the next day might have looked sus- 
picious. ’ ’ 

“Why, bless ’ee, sir,” replied Sikes, “if they’d sus- 
pected me one small moment I’d been in quod long ago ; 
but I ’adn’t no call t*o be afeard, and I’ll tell ’ee why. 
Jes you listen to me. That there night was the rummiest 
and the fullest o’ the most curious coincidences I ever 
seed. You heerd oz Mr. Crossland when you was at Mar- 
burn? Yes, of course you did. Well, I was jes passing 
liis ’ouse on my way ’ome, in the middle o’ the night, 
mind ye, when out he jumps from behind an ’edge and 
collars me, and wuss luck, as I thought, my rabbits 
and fesans and likewise my gun. Terrible bad luck that 
be, to be sewer, I thinks to mysel’, as I goes ’ome enipty- 
’anded. But was it?” he asked, triumphantly. “Jes 
listen to me again. I ’adn’t gone far when the village 
bobby comes up and collars me. ’ ’ 

“ ‘Ullo, Mr. Sikes,’ says he, ‘wot’s your little game 
prowlin’ about at this time o’ night? Hear that? The 


A POOK liELATION. 


241 


clock’s strikin’ ’alf-past three. You ain't up to no good. 
Let me see wot you’re a-carrying ’ome. ’ Search number 
two; an’ I a’most bust wi’ larfen to think ’ow that there 
bobby was sold !” 

“You had some narrow escapes that night, Sikes,’’ said 
Birkin, laughing, “Mr. Crossland saved you from the 
policeman, and the policeman saved you from being sus- 
pected of murder.” 

“Ah, worn’t I in luck just? For mind you, other 
people knowed I was out that night! But wot I says 
is this, ’taint everybody as can peerjuce a bobby to give 
him a nalibi. ” 

Birkin, in the course of further conversation with 
Sikes, gleamed other items of information about the 
night of the 18th of November — items interesting in 
themselves and extremely useful from his point of view 
as detective. Before leaving Brighton, Birkin found it 
necessary to inform Sikes of his real occupation and the 
object with which he had been making his late inquiries. 
He could atford to show a little confidence then, as Sikes 
showed no resentment at having been “taken in,” as he 
termed it ; he had certainly been well paid for the in- 
formation he had given. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t mind coming back to Mar- 
bum?” suggested Birkin, just before he took leave of 
him, “for a consideration, of course,” he added. 

“No, I’ll come back right enough if you’ll make it 
worth my while,” said Sikes, laughing. “ ’Appen Mr. 
Crossland won’t trouble hisself about me now. It’s a 
goodish bit since — that little affair.” 

Perfectly satisfied with the result of his journey to 
Brighton, Birkin returned to Marburn, where more re- 
mained to be done. But the information derived from 


242 


A POOR RELATION. 


Sikes helped to clear the ground in a wonderful manner. 
Had Crossland been aware of the extraordinary interest 
a comparative stranger was taking in his affairs he 
would no doubt have been considerably astonished. How 
much more so had he known that the said stranger was 
intimately acquainted with various matters which he 
himself regarded as important secrets? 

Birkin’s crowning stroke, not of skill; for he himself 
modestly disclaimed all share in the discovery, but of 
luck, was his being able to trace the whereabouts of Gerald 
Hartley. It vras brought about thus : A rumor began 
to be whispered about in Marburn that Birkin was a 
detective from Scotland Yard, who had come down en- 
gaged in the task of discovering Squire Ingham’s mur- 
derer. This report in the first instance came from Sikes, 
who, in a letter to his relations at Marburn spoke of his 
interviews with Birkin and the nature of the inquiries 
the latter was making. Of course all this was in the 
strictest confidence. It was misplaced confidence; in 
a few hours the news was all over the place. Brown, 
Crossland’s agent, the man who had tracked Gerald to 
the barracks at Aldershot, heard it. The result was he 
sought an interview with Birkin. 

“I’ve called, sir,” he began, “about that there reward 
of a hundred pounds as was offered by the police for the 
discoverer of Squire Ingham’s murderer.” 

“Yes, and have you discovered who it was?” asked 
Birkin, giving him a keen glance. 

“Yes, sir, I have. Leastways I think so, and more nor 
that,” he added, triumphantly, “I can put my finger on 
’im this here hidentical minute.” 

“Ah, come, that looks like business,” replied Birkin, 


A POOR RELATION. 


243 


taking out liis note-book. “Now, then, let us have all the 
particulars.” 

“Well, the man as done the deed is Mr. Gerald Hartley, 
lately living at Ivy Cottage in this very village. Now 
he’s a solider in the 16th Lancers, stationed at Aider- 
shot, and he calls himself Henry Barnes. I heard as 
how you were a detective on this very job,” he added, 
as if in explanation of his visit and communication. 

Ignoring the gentle insinuation as to his profession, 
Mr. Birkin replied : “You’re rather late in the day.” 

“Not too late,” cried Brown; “don’t say, sir, I ain’t 
the first in the field.” 

“Oh, you’re all right so far,” replied Birkin, reassur- 
ingly; “I mean you are rather late in finding out all 
this. 

“Well, sir. the fact of the matter is I had my suspicions 
long ago, but I could not piece things together before. I 
wasn’t able to perjuce the witness who saw Mr. Hart- 
ley coming away from the spot after doing the deed.” w 

“I see. Well, Mr. Brown, if Mr. Gerald Hartley is 
proved guilty you’ll get the reward right enough. And 
now I think that is sufficient for the present.” 

The fact was, Brown had had a quarrel with Crossland, 
and a desire for revenge had arisen so great that he was 
prepared to risk everything if only he could indulge it. 

Birkin made a journey to Aldershot that day, and, by 
means of a pliotograph, was able to verify Brown’s as- 
sertion that Gerald Hartley was serving as a private 
under an assumed name in the 16th Lancers. 

On his return he had a lengthened and, from a monetary 
point of view, highly satisfactory interview with John 
Hartley. 

That was his last appearance in ^Marburn. 


244 


A POOR RELATION. 


• CHAPTER XXXII. 

COALS OF FIRE. ^ 

“ • • • • Man is one, 

And he hath one great heart. It is thus we feel, 

With a gigantic throb athwart the sea, 

Each other’s rights and wrongs. Thus are we men. 

—Bailey’s Festus. 

The day after receiving Birkin’s final report Uncle 
Jack went to London, and from thence, at the end of two 
days, to Aldershot. 

On arriving there he engaged rooms at The County, the 
most fashionable hotel in the place, ordered dinner for 
two at seven o’clock, and then sallied forth to the cavalry 
barracks. There he had a long interview with the colonel 
of the 16th Royal Dragoons. 

Just before he took his leave the colonel rang the bell. 

* “Send for private Henry Barnes,” said he to the servant 
who answered the summons. 

In a few minutes Private Barnes, alias Gerald Hartley, 
appeared, saluted his colonel and then stood attention, 
vainly endeavoring to conceal his amazement at finding 
his uncle in close confab with his chief officer. 

“Barnes,” said fhe colonel, “at your uncle’s request, 
you have leave out of barracks till twelve to-night, and 
whenever you ask— to-morrow, if you like— furlough for 
a week. That is all.” 

Private Barnes once more saluted and retired. 

“Good-by, Colonel Rhodes,” said Hartley, holding out 


A POOR RELATION. 


245 


his liand, “good-by, and many thanks for your kind- 
ness.” 

Isot at ail, not at all,” replied the colonel, heartily. 
“Least I could do under the circumstances; but take ad- 
vice, if the young fellow wants to stop in the regiment, 
why, let him do so.” 

In the barrack-yard. Hartley found Gerald waiting for 
him. “Shake hands, Gerald,” he said, holding out his 
hand, which the young man shook sheepishly enough. 

“Now, I want you to come and have some dinner with 
me at The County. Here, to save time, weTl take a han- 
som,” and he hailed one which was passing the gates. 

Gerald mechanically got in after his uncle, and very* 
soon they found themselves in Hartley’s private room at 
The County. 

Gerald could hardly keep his eyes off his uncle. Every 
trace of the “poor relation” had totally disappeared. He 
was fashionably if plainly dressed. His silver chain 
and watch had been replaced by others of gold, simple 
in pattern but costly. But the change was not only in 
dress. There was a dignity, a sense of power about him 
which startled Gerald and inspired him with a certain 
amount of respect, bordering upon awe. Gerald felt 
actually proud of him. He looked every inch a Hartley. 
To treat him with disrespect now seemed impossible. The 
young man even colored a little at the remembrance of 
his former behavior toward him. A sign of grace, in- 
deed. “Sit down, Gerald,” said Hartley, “I want a little 
talk with you before dinner. We have half an hour 
yet.” 

Gerald sat down opposite his uncle, anxiously wonder- 
ing what he was about to hear. The elder Hartley’s man- 
ner betokened no evil tidings. 


246 


A POOR RELATION. 


“Let me begin by relieving your mind of a great 
burden,” said Uncle Jack, after a few moments’ reflec- 
tion, looking earnestly at his nephew as he did so. “You 
had nothing to do with causing the death of Squire Ing- 
ham.” 

“What!” exclaimed Gerald, starting from his chair; 
“say that again. I had nothing to do with — ” here his 
faltering tongue failed him, he could only gaze at his 
uncle in speechless wonder. 

“No, I repeat it. You had nothing to do with causing 
the death of Squire Ingham. For, mark you, he was 
shot just half an hour after you had reached Marburn 
village on your way home.” 

Gerald sank back into his chair, covering his face with 
his hands, while the tears, happy tears of relief, rolled 
'down his cheek. Oh, what a burden had gone from 
his heart I His hands were innocent of blood. 

There was a suspicious redness about Uncle Jack’s 
eyes as he sat looking at his nephew. It was evident 
he was not astonished at these signs of emotion on Ger- 
ald’s part. 

Presently the latter grew calmer. 

“But, Uncle Jack,” he said, looking at his uncle with 
a slightly incredulous air, “I did — did shoot somebody.” 

“You did,” the other replied, quietly; “you shot Bill 
Sikes, who was out poaching in Harden Spinney. It was 
his cry you heard. It was Sikes you evidently mistook 
for a keeper in your hasty flight. Bill, too, was escaping 
from an imaginary keeper, and did not recognize or 
even see you till you both got near Harden Spinney — 
Hr. Crossland’s house. But where your unfortunate 
shot went to matters but little. The point is this. You 
could not have wounded Squire Ingham. For listen. 


A POOR RELATION. 


247 


Bill Sikes was stopped by the village policeman in Mar- 
burn Street at half-past three by the clock. You were 
a minute or two before him. Mr. Ingham did not leave 
the Hall till half-past three, and his watch stopped, in- 
jured by shot, exactly at four o’clock.” 

For some time Gerald could not speak, so deep was his 
emotion at finding that the proof of his innocence was 
thus happily supplied. “But who,” he said, at length — 
“who has taken the trouble to find out all this? To 
whom am I indebted for this great kindness?” 

“To one who is still under an obligation to your father, 
my boy,” said the other, kindly, “and who seeks to 
repay it in a small measure by doing what he can for 
Gerald Hartley’s children. He sent to London for a 
private detective who, though unable to find out who 
was the actual murderer, found out quite enough to 
clear you from suspicion. Doubtless the squire was 
shot by one of the many poachers who had troubled 
him so much of late.” 

The younger and living Gerald looked at him with 
deep gratitude. He knew now who was the benefactor* 
to whom he owed so much and who had so frequently 
done kindnesses to himself and his family. The despised 
“poor relation,” the man whom he had allowed to risk 
drowning in the Lent rather than to say a few words to 
prevent it. The man to whom he had been so often rude 
and unkind. He it was who had spent money and trouble 
and time in trying to free him from the horrible burden 
of suspicion and the weight of a terrible trial. 

“Forgive me,” he faltered, holding out his hand and 
speaking humbly, “forgive me, uncle.” 

“Mv dear fellow, of course I do. I’m sure you’re 
awfully sorry about it all, and so am I. We’ll say noth- 


24-8 


A POOR RELATION. 


ing more about it. Eh, what’s that? Accident in the Lent. 
No, don’t say* you might have prevented it and didn’t! 
I couldn’t have believed it of you, I couldn’t, indeed. 
In all the troublesome — that is, I mean the continued — in- 
vestigation as to your innocence in this matter I have 
said to myself about you : ‘Gerald wouldn’t have hurt a 
fly. He had his faults, but to lift up a finger against 
any one, or cause another a moment’s bodily pain — not 
he, a thousand times no.’ I was sure of that. And I 
getting old, too, and having twinges of rheumatism ever 
since that struggle in the Lent ! Oh, Gerald !” 

“I’m awfully ashamed,” said Gerald, holding his head 
down. “I’m sure you can never forgive me. I don’t 
deserve to be forgiven.” 

“Ah, but we must forgive,” said Uncle Jack, “even as 
we’d be forgiven. So we won’t think any more about it, 
my boy ; that, too, shall be forgotten by one to whom your 
father was so very, very good.” 

“Oh, thank you, uncle,” said Gerald, penitently; “I 
shall never forget it, never,” and the tears again sprung 
to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. 

“Gerald,” said his uncle, after a little time, “you are not 
aware, I suppose, that things have not been going quite 
smoothly among your friends. Maude has refused poor 
Ingham, and he has gone abroad— to Egypt, I think— in 
great distress of mind.” 

“Maude refused to marry Ingham!” exclaimed Ger- 
ald. “Why, I ’m sure she used to care for him, even I 
could see that.” 

“I should think you knew as much as any one what 
was the state of her mind when you were at home, so, 
perhaps, you can form some idea of her reasons for say- 


A POOR RELATION. 


249 


ing no to that nice young fellow?” and Uncle Jack looked 
inquiringly at his nephew. 

Gerald remained buried in thought for a few minutes. 
“I perhaps might suggest one possible reason which led 
her to sa5^ no, ” he said, at last, in very low tones. “Think- 
ing that I had— wounded — been the cause of his father’s 
death — she might have shrunk from — from — ” but he 
could not stammer out another word. He was horrified 
at discovering how heavily the results of his own actions 
had fallen upon others — including his own best-beloved 
sister, too. 

“You are not very clear, Gerald, but I think I under- 
stand what you want to say. You — albeit unwittingly 
— had raised an insurmountable barrier between Eustace 
Ingham and herself? Well, that is the conclusion I have 
come to. She herself refused to give me any explana- 
tion of her conduct. Her unwillingness to do so was 
quite natural. She was shielding you.” 

“Poor Maude,” sighed Gerald, “how terribly she must 
have suffered !” 

“Well, my boy, I hope you will have abundant oppor- 
tunities in the future of making it up to her, ’ ’ said his 
uncle, kindly. “But I haven’t quite finished yet,” he 
added. “Do you know she is engaged to Crossland?” 

“Engaged to Crossland?” cried Gerald, springing to his 
feet. ‘No, that is impossible!” and he began to pace 
the room with hasty steps, carried away by the excite- 
ment of his feelings. The idea of Maude’s engagement 
to Crossland was monstrous, incredible. 

“Impossible? Well, I’m afraid the impossibility of 
the matter exists rather in your own mind than the 
thing itself; impossible or not, it is a fact.” 

Gerald, who was standing by his chair at that instant, 


250 


A POOR RELATION. 

sank back into it in an attitude of despair. Was this 
another awful result of that fatal night’s adventures? 

“This is terrible,” he groaned. “She can’t love Cross- 
land.” 

“Not love him? Then why promise to become his 
wife?” and once again his uncle gave him a searching 
glance. 

Gerald shook his head. He could attempt to give- no 
explanation of this second extraordinary step on Maude's 
part. The idea that she was about to sacrifice herself for 
his sake would have been the last to occur to him. Not 
because he would have deemed her incapable of such de- 
votion, but rather because he would not have thought 
Crossland could have been base enough to demand such 
a sacrifice on her part. No, for Gerald, Maude’s conduct 
was an insoluble mystery. 

“I can’t even suggest why she is going to marry him,” 
was all he could say in answer to his uncle’s inquiry. 

“Can’t you? Then let me suggest a possible reason? 
Let us suppose she is sacrificing herself to save you.” 

“Save me, uncle? What do you mean?” cried Gerald, 
in amazement, totally unable to grasp the force of his 
uncle’s words. 

“Be patient and be calm, Gerald,” said his uncle, 
quietly. “Let me finish. Suppose Crossland has threat- 
ened to denounce you as Squire Ingham’s murderer 
unless she consents to marry him?” 

“But that is too monstrous for belief,” and Gerald 
once more sprung to his feet, horror-struck at his 
uncle’s suggestion. 

“Let us hope it is. Let us hope, for his sake, that 
such baseness is incredible.” 

“It is— it must be! Why, from what you have told 


A POOK KELATION. 


251 


me he must have known that I was two miles away 
from Harden Spinney when the squire was shot. ’ ' 

“Quite so. He must have known that; but, you see, 
you didn’t even know it, and therefore it is quite pos- 
sible that Maude didn’t. Nay, I am convinced she did 
not know that fact. ’ ’ 

“And he pretended to be my friend!” cried Gerald, 
aghast. “What a double-faced, heartless scoundrel! I 
should like to horsewhip him,” and the young man’s 
eyes flashed with rage. 

“Gerald,” said his uncle, impressively, “you must be 
guided entirely by me. Remember, as yet we have no 
positive proof of Crossland’s base treachery; suspicions 
count for little. For your sister’s sake we must avoid 
anything like a public scandal. There is one way by 
which we can give both Maude and Crossland an oppor- 
tunity of retiring from a false position, if, as I believe, 
this engagement is not founded upon mutual respect and 
love. We must publicly prove your innocence of all share 
in Squire Ingham’s death. And indeed, leaving those two 
out of the question, that proof must be made publicly. 
There are rumors abroad which point to you as the guilty 
one. Those rumors must in the fullest daylight be 
shown to have no foundation.” 

“I will agree to any plan,” exclaimed Gerald, eagerly. 

“Stop a moment,” said his uncle ; “don’t be so impetu- 
ous in binding yourself to unknown conditions.” 

“The plan-^yes, the only plan I can suggest will cause 
you suffering and shame ; you will not escape public dis- 
grace. nor will you escape some punishment, what it may 
be I cannot say. Now consider, are you prepared to make 
this sacrifice?” 

“Uncle Jack,” replied Gerald, earnestly, “for Maude’s 


252 


A POOR RELATION. 


sake I will suffer anything. See how much she has suf- 
fered on my account already. ’’ 

“Very well, my boy, I am pleased to hear you speak 
like that. You couldn’t do too much for her sake. 
Ay, and more than that, leaving her aside, you ought to 
suffer for your wrongdoing. Now, I don’t want to seem 
harsh or unkind, but I must speak out straight. Just 
consider how much suffering your wrongdoing — I allude, 
of course, to your poaching — has inflicted upon your 
friends. Your mother and sisters, Eustace Ingham and 
myself, all of us have been more or less the victims to 
a greater or less extent of your imlawful actions. Nay, 
to go further back, your false pride, disgust of honest 
work and selflshness are the original causes of all this 
misery that has come upon yourself and others. ’ ’ 

It was plain from the patient way in which Gerald 
listened to his uncle that his pride was broken. A great 
deal of the old leaven formerly working in his character 
was gone. He had been through the furnace and had 
come out considerably refined and purified. 

His silence and the tears which still slowly welled 
do\yn his cheeks were mute but eloquent signs of grace, 
which were viewed by Uncle Jack with intense satis- 
faction. 

“My lad,” he said, looking at him with kindly ‘interest, 
while a suspicious huskiness came into his voice, “the 
good old Book says : ‘Be sure your sin will find you out. ’ 
Which, I take it, means that, discovered or not, it wdll 
bring trouble to you if not to others. You are finding 
that out by bitter experience. Well, we can’t undo the 
past, but we must try to obviate some of the conse- 
quences of your action, so far, ,at least, as they concern 


A POOR RELATION. 


253 


others. As I said, that will entail additional suffering 
on you.” 

“I will do anything to make Maude happy again,” 
murmured Gerald, looking up earnestly at his uncle. 

“Tlien listen to me,” and Uncle Jack proceeded to lay 
before him certain plans wdiich he had made in further- 
ance of the object he had in view. 

When he had finished, much to his satisfaction Ger- 
ald promised his hearty co-operation in carrying out 
all of them. 

The next morning the young man obtained his fur- 
lough from the colonel, and in"" the afternoon accom- 
panied his uncle to London. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A SURPRISING REVELATION. 

“ And he who sees the future sure. 

The baffling present may endure ; 

And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads 
The heart’s desires beyond the halting step of deeds.” 

— J. G. Whittier. 

As Gerald and Uncle Jack were at breakfast in a 
private room at the Charing Cross Hotel, the following 
morning, the latter observed: “I thought it better to 
send for Maude to come up to town and meet you here. 
She will arrive about two o’clock.” 

“How good of you !” cried Gerald, gratefully. 

“Well, I thought that there would be so much to ex- 


254 


A POOR RELATION. 


plain, and naturally she will be a little overcome, and — 
and, well, you can more easily have an explanation with 
her here. But don’t attempt to force her confidence, and 
above all make no allusion to lier engagement with 
Crossland. Leave that to me. I shall be able to judge 
by her conduct, after hearing of your innocence, if I am 
correct in my surmises about her engagement. At least 
I hope so. In any case I shall take it upon me to unfold 
to her my conjectures on the subject. Now, if you 
quite understand wdiat I wish you to do in the matter, 
of making knoAvn jmur innocence, I think we had better 
have a little talk about your future. I don’t think serv- 
ing in the ranks has done you any harm, by the way. 
But there may be another opening found for you, should 
you prefer to leave the army,” and he looked significantly 
at Gerald. 

The young man knew all tliat was implied in the few 
simple w'ords — his uncle was willing to help him in his 
choice of a profession, and was, moreover, fully able to 
do so most substantially. It had dawned upon him long 
ere this that the ‘'poor relation” w^as but a creature of 
imagination. 

But, without a moment’s hesitation, he replied : “Thank 
you, uncle, but I would rather stay where I am. There 
are rumors of active service in Egypt ; if so, I may have 
a chance of getting a commission. At any rate I’ll risk 
it.” 

“Bravo, Gerald, spoken like a man!” cried Uncle 
Jack, heartily. “I think the army has done you good 
in many ways.” 

“Well, perhaps it has,” replied Gerald, somewhat 
ruefully. “It’s tlie place to knock a little conceit out 
of you. And you can’t easily have your own way.” 


255 


A POOR RELATION. 


“And I’m afraid th%^ don’t consult youT feelings too 
much. Eh?’’ 

“No; but they are not at all backward in expressing 
their own, if you are not exactly up to the mark in. 
everything. And they are all the same from the colonel 
down to the newest corporal.” 

“But in spite of all these little drawbacks you decide 
upon remaining where you are?” 

“Yes, certainly. But I don’t know how the mater 
will like it?” _ 

“Oh, leave that to me. I’ll make it right with her,” 
cried his uncle. 

And then he went out to call on his cousin, Lord 
Granton, without, however, thinking it necessary to 
mention his destination to his nephew. 

Lord Granton being at home and disengaged, his 
cousin had the satisfaction of giA^ing him a little of 
the plain-speaking, replete with common sense, which 
characterized his usual conversation. The interview 
proved more or less satisfactory to the ex- American, 
who felt when it was over tliat he had done his duty 
by Lord Granton, at all events. What Lord Granton 
thought of it was another matter. 

At a quarter to two Maude was met at Charing Cross 
Station by her uncle, who took her in a hansom to his 
hotel, from which he had sent Gerald for an hour’s 
walk. 

The girl was considerably startled at the change in her 
uncle’s appearance and manner. And her half-formed 
suspicions concerning his real position were strength- 
ened by finding he was staying at the Charing Cross 
Hotel. That was hardly compatible with the pocket 


256 


A POOR RELATION. 


of a poor man. However, she kopt her astonishment to 
herself. 

After she liad lunched in his private sitting-room 
Uncle Jack left her, saying he had a little business 
to see after. 

Maude was not left alone long; her uncle soon re- 
turned, looking very mysterious and happy. 

“Maude,” he said, “I have brought some one to see 
you.” 

The girl looked eagerly toward the door. 

A tall figure in a scarlet coat stood there. 

The next moment she was in Gerald’s arms. Uncle 
Jack left them alone. 

“How weir you look, Gerald,” she cried, looking up 
admiringly into his face, “and — and — happy,” she 
added. 

“I am happy, Maude, love,” he replied, eagerly; “and 
so I ought to be, for do you know I never touched poor 
Squire Ingham on that dreadful night before I left 
home.” 

“You never shot him ! You are innocent ! Oh, 'thank 
God for that,” and Maude threw herself on his breast, 
while tears, happy tears of joy and relief, flowed down 
her cheeks. 


But it was quite plain to Uncle Jack, when he joined 
them, that even the glad news of Gerald’s innocence and 
the pleasure of being with him once more did not render 
the girl perfectly happy. The burden of sorrow was not 
all rolled away. Her engagement with Crossland was 
still weighing heavily upon her mind. Even Gerald— 


A POOR RELATION. 


257 


^ and brothers are not as a rule the most observant of 
their sisters’ moods and looks — could plainly see that. 

Before the girl returned to Marburn she and her uncle 
had a long conversation together. There were many 
things to discuss. 

“Maude,” began Uncle Jack, “I think you will readily 
understand why I wanted you to be the first to see Ger- 
ald, yes, even before his mother. You alone knew the 
principal reason why he left home; you had to hear 
alone what you considered a terrible secret, it was only 
right that you should be the first to hear from his lips 
the real truth.” 

“The happy truth, which we have to thank you for 
finding out, uncle, dear,” cried Maude, joyously, looking 
at him with great affection. “How shall we ever be 
able to repay you for all you have done?” 

“There, child, that will do,” replied her uncle, hastily, 
‘don’t begin to talk nonsense. Besides, I haven’t fin- 
ished all I meant to say,” and he looked earnestly at her. 
“There is another reason why you should be the first to 
hear the good news of Gerald’s innocence ; if I am not 
mistaken, it concerns you more directly than any one 
else.” 

Maude looked down in confusion and turned dea‘thly 
pale, but made no attempt to repel the suggestion con- 
tained in the words, 

“Do you know,” he went on, “your behavior during 
the last few months startled me extremely. You loved 
Eustace Ingham, and yet you sent him away. You did 
not love Frank Crossland, and yet you promised to 
marry him. Now, what are the solutions of these two 
mysteries?” 


258 


A POOR RELATION. 


Maude made no reply. But the heaving of her bosom 
and the quivering of her lips betrayed the presence of a 
deep emotion within her heart. 

“As soon as ever I heard the rumor connecting Ger- 
ald’s name with the murder of Squire Ingham,” went 
on her uncle, “the key to the riddle was easy to find. 
You couldn’t marry Eustace Ingham believing that Ger- 
ald was guilty of having committed such a terrible crime. 
Now, Maude, tell me truthfully, am I not right?” and 
he looked inquiringly at the girl, 

“Yes, yes, of course; that was the reason I refused 
Mr. Ingham,” murmured Maude, faintly, her eyes filling 
with tears at the thought of her lost love. 

“Very well, and now for the explanation of the other 
enigma. You were forced into this engagement with 
Mr. Crossland. Of course I don’t pretend to understand 
the whole history of the transaction, but Gerald’s safety 
had something to do with it, that I am sure of,” and his 
voice had a ring of triumph in it as he looked once 
more inquiringly at Maude. 

But she broke down completel}". Heavy sobs choked 
her utterance for a few moments. Then, rising from 
her chair, she threw herself into her uncle’s arms, gas])- 
ing, in spasmodic sentences: “Yes, I did— did it, to save 
Gerald — oh, if I could only get free from my promise — 
save me, uncle, from this hateful marriage.” 

“Listen to me. my dear,” said her uncle, soothingly. 
“A promise extorted from you under such circumstances 
only deserves to be broken ! You were hardly a free 
agent. You gave it under pressure of a cruel threat. 
It was a promise he had no right to ask in that way.” 

“And you really think, uncle, dear, that I am not 


A POOR RELATION. 


259 


bound to carry it out?” cried Maude, a gleam of hope 
coming into her eyes. 

“Keep it, my dear? Not a bit of it! Besides, it was 
obtained under false pretenses. He pretended he was 
able to save Gerald from a dreadful danger. That dan- 
ger never existed at all. He was a liar and a scoundrel 
when he wrung your consent to an engagement.” 

“Oh, thank heavens that I am once more free I” cried 
Maude, fervently, as she sank trembling into her chair, 
while the tears of happy relief coursed down her 
cheeks. 

After some little time, when she was calmer. Uncle 
Jack told her his scheme for establishing Gerald’s inno- 
cence in the minds of all those who suspected him of 
having caused Squire Ingham’s death. And then they 
talked about the expediency of taking the Hartleys 
abroad for a time while it was carried out. He im- 
agined, too, that change of air and scene would do them 
all good, and especially Maude. 

“And now, perhaps,” he went on to say, when they 
had arranged these and sundry other matters to the girl’s 
satisfaction, ' T ought to make a little explanation. Of 
course you will have gathered that I have been living 
among you under what you may call false pretenses. 
Without positively asserting the fact in so many words, I 
have certainly been acting down at Marburn as a man 
of small means. Why? you may ask. Well, in the 
first instance it was merely a matter of impulse. I 
could see you looked on me as a poor relation when 
first I came, and the idea occurred to me to keep up 
the illusion by my style of living and simplicity of 
habits. Perhaps I thought I should feel freer and less 
restrained in speech and action if I mixed with you on 


260 


A POOR RELATION. 


the same level as regarded means ; and perhaps, as the 
poor relation, learn to know more of you than a rich 
one might have the opportunity to do. I must confess 
I didn't feel altogether comfortable in assuming a posi- 
tion to which I had no right. It seemed rather like play- 
ing the spy. But, having begun, I determined to go on 
for some time in my new character. 

“Sometimes, especially when I saw you and Grace 
bravely toiling on with your needles, my resolution al- 
most broke down. And many a'time within the last few 
weeks I have bitterly regretted taking such a step. I 
might have prevented a great deal of unmerited suffering 
on the part of the weak and innocent. But we can’t al- 
ways see the consequences of our actions. Even the best 
intentions may end disastrously. A great deal of what 
I saw of the inner life at Ivy Cottage gave me intense 
satisfaction. I noticed how bravely Jack threw himself 
into the breach, and, giving up for the time his idea of 
being an artist, eagerly took up the first work that he 
could get. And, as I have said, I noticed how hard you 
and Grace worked and did what you could to keep the 
house going. Then came Grace’s trial. And I saw how 
patiently she and George waived their own feelings for 
a time out of consideration for others— how pleased 
the new owner of Marburn would feel to know he had 
made two young people happy by appointing George 
as his agent!” and he looked at Maude with a merry 
twinkle in his eye. “I hope George won’t disappoint his 
confidence. ’ ’ 

Then the truth dawned upon Maude. ‘'Why you are 
the new owner of Marburn Hall,” she exclaimed, rapt- 
urously. “\VIiat a scheming match-maker you are. 
uncle ! But how delightful of you ! I must give you 


A POOR RELATION. 


261 


Grace’s thanks in this way,” and she almost smothered 
him with her embraces. 

“If Grace is half as demonstrative in her thank-offer- 
ings I shall barely escape with my life,” cried Uncle 
Jack, plaintively, escaping at length from her arms. 
“Is my tie quite straight again? I am sure my hair 
must be in a dreadful state of confusion.” 

“Oh, ^uncle, how vain you are!” cried Maude, mer- 
rily. “Your hair— what there is of it— is in beautiful 
order. ’ ’ 

“Then I can proceed in comfort. As for you, my 
love,” he went on, at length, looking affectionately at 
: her, “what shall ! say of your great sacrifice?” 

“Oh, please don’t say anything, uncle, dear,” entreated 
Maude, faintly. 

“I must say this, my dear : Gerald will never forget it. 
1 1 feel convinced that in the future he will try and be a 
' man worthy of the sister who could do so much for him. 
His very determination to remain in the ranks and try 
and win a commission shows that he is altered for the 
; better. Yes, he ’is developing quite a new character. 
And you know, dear, character is everything, and to 
learn to be noble, generous and unselfish is worth all the 
money and rank in the world. ’ ’ 

“It is,” said Maude, earnestly, with tears in her lovely 
eyes. 

* “And now just one little word about your own future, 
my dear. You have been, brave and patient when others 
wmre concerned. Keep a good heart. Even if the clouds 
seem to hang a little dark and thick now over your own 
life, perhaps we shall see the silver lining shining 
through them by and by,” and he tenderly kissed her 
blushing cheek. 


362 


A POOR RELATION. 


She knew perfectl}'^ well wliat he meant, and his words 
strengthened the secret hope in her heart. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MAUDE’S GOOD NEWS. 

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above.” 

, —St. James. 

When Maude reached Ivy Cottage, on her return from 
London the next day, Grace happened to be in the little 
garden. 

“Why, Maude,” she exclaimed, as the fly drove off 
again, “what a reckless girl you have grown in a few 
hours ! A fly all to yourself ! Have you found a fortune 
in London?” 

“Well, no,” replied Maude, with a smile, I haven’t ex- 
actly found one, but—” then she paused; the good news 
must be told when they were all present. 

“But what, Maude?” asked Grace, in a tone of surprise, 
seeing her hesitation. 

“Oh, you mustn’t ask any questions now. Wait till 
the others are here.” 

“Well, I shan’t have to wait long. Jack has come 
home early ; and we are just going to have tea. ” 

“Then I’ll go straight off and change my things.” 
And Maude tripped upstairs to her little room with 
something of her old gayety. 


A POOR RELATION. 


263 


^‘Why, Maude, how well and — yes, how well-satisfied 
you look !” exclaimed Jack, as he gave her a kiss of wel- 
come when she entered the dining-room, where they 
were all sitting down to tea. “Doesn’t she, mother?” 

“She does look better than she did when she went. 
London seems to have agreed with her, and she cer- 
tainly seems very happy, judging by her appearance.” 

“Oh, perhaps Uncle Jack took her to the Crystal 
Palace for a treat, or perhaps the British Museum,” 
cried Jack. 

“British Museum — Crystal Palace, indeed!” indig- 
nantly cried Maude. “If you think a visit to either 
of those places would make me excited — well, all I 
can say is, you don’t deserve to hear the news — good 
news, too, I’ve brought back with me. ’ ’ 

“There, Jack, that’s one for you!” cried Grace, gayly. 
“Perhaps, now, you will control your tongue. But do 
make haste, Maude ; I’m all in a quiver with eagerness 
and excitement.” 

“Quick, child, let’s have your budget. Now mind, 
don’t stop till we’ve heard everything,” said Mrs. Hart- 
ley. 

“Wouldn’t you rather wait, mother, till you’ve had 
your tea?” said Maude, demurely. “I don’t want to spoil 
your appetite. ” 

“I’ll risk that, my dear, if it’s really good news you 
have to give us ; so don’t tantalize us any longer,” replied 
Mrs. Hartley. 

“Very well, then. Listen. In the first place I have 
seen Gerald.” 

“Seen Gerald!” exclaimed the others in chorus. 
“Where? Where? What was he doing?” 

“Last night at the Charing Cross Hotel, and he was 


264 


A POOR RELATION. 


enjoying a very good dinner. There ! that’s a model 
answer for you.” 

Immediately there followed another string of eager 
questions. 

“No, no,” cried Maude, ‘T really can’t attempt to an- 
swer all these inquiries. Why, I should never get my 
tea at all at this rate. Let me just say this, and then 
no more about Gerald just now: He looks better in 
health, and is handsomer and happier than I ever saw 
him before.” 

“Thank you, my love, for this good news,” said Mrs. 
Hartley, through her tears of gladness, “you have made 
me very happy.” 

“Anything else, Maude?” asked Jack, laconically. 

“Yes, Uncle Jack wants us all to go up to London in 
two or three days, if possible. Partly to see Gerald and 
partly — ” then she stopped, feeling amused at their looks 
of eager curiosity. 

“Yes, yes, and partly to do what? Come, Maude, 
hurry up,” cried Jack. 

“Well, partly to make preparations for a good long 
tour on the Continent. ’ ’ 

“Hurrah for Uncle Jack !” cried Jack, enthusiastically ; 
“just when my holidays are beginning.” 

“Oh, I see.” said Grace, “it’s uncle who luis come into 
the fortune?” 

“No, I think he has had it all along,” replied Maude, 
quietly. “Some of us ratlier jumped at rash conclusions 
in fancying him the poor relation. Do you know Mar- 
Imrn Hall— in fact, all the Marburn property has been 
bought by him?” 

“Then he is George’s mysterious employer?” cried 
Grace. 


A POOR RELATION. 


265 


‘‘Yes, and I daresay he bought that especial x>i'operty 
partly to get George something to do near home. ' ’ 

“Poor, dear John,’’ murmured Mrs. Hartley, “not to 
tell us anything about his affairs — how strange ! But 
then he was always quite as eccentric as kind- 
hearted.’’ 

“And there’s a letter for you. Jack,’’ said Maude, toss- 
ing a sealed enveloi^e to her brother. “But uncle said 
you were not to open it until you were alone.’’ 

Jack took the letter and put it in his pocket with 
some satisfaction and much wonder. What was his 
good uncle going to do for Min? 

“He’s an awfully good fellow,’’ he said, enthusiastic- 
ally; “I always liked him.’’ 

When Maude had given them a little time in which 
thorouglily to digest all the good news she had brought 
she directed their minds once more to the jh-oposed ex- 
cursion abroad, reminding them that the time for q^rep- 
aration was short. ’r ; ' . 

“But you needn’t worry about buying any fresh things 
here,’’ she added, “for uncle wants us to stay a few 
days in London before we go. And you will be able 
to rig yourselves out much cheaper there tlian here. 
Those are uncle’s very words. And here, mother, he 
has. sent you something to do it with.’’ And she held 
out a check for fifty pounds. ‘ • 

“How awfully kind and thoughtful of uncle!’’ ex- 
claimed Grace, enthusiastically. “Why, I declare he 
thinks of everything. How shall we ever be able to 
thank him enough?’’ 

“Why, by showing him how thoroughly you enjoy 
yourselves, both in London and abroad, I should say,’’ 
replied Maude, laughing. 


266 


A POOR RELATION. 


That night Grace followed Maude into her ro@m 
after they had all gone upstairs. 

“I’m glad you’ve come here, Grace,” said the latter, 
“I have something to say to you.” 

“Well, I knew there was something more you might 
say, Maude,” returned Grace, quietly, “you didn’t quite 
empty' your budget this evening. For instance, I don’t 
exactly see why we are to rush off from Marburn in 
such a desperate hurry all at once. Merely to see Lon- 
don or Switzerland? No, that is just an excuse for con- 
cealing some other reasons. ” 

“Yes — you are quite right, Grace. And now you shall 
hear the whole truth.” 

Then Maude poured into the ears of her astonished 
sister the story of Gerald’s poaching adventure, tne sus- 
picion which had fallen upon him, the real reason of his 
flight, the motives underlying her engagement with 
Crossland and the discovery of Gerald’s innocence, 
together with the scheme which her uncle had thought 
out, whereby Gerald’s innocence was to be publicly 
made known. 

“And then you break off your engagement?” said 
Grace, when she had ended. 

‘“And then I break off my engagement,” replied 
Maude. “To-day is Tuesday. Mr. Crossland comes back 
on Friday, so he told me. It is to be done immediately on 
his return. Now, I think, you must see the reason of 
this hurry to get away from here. We don’t want 
mother to know anything, at least at present, of Ger- 
ald’s misadventures. But, of course, as soon as ever Ger- 
ald’s innocence is made known I shall tell her that my 
engagement is at an end.” 


A FOOK llELATION. 


267 


“You are a. brave girl, Maude,” said Grace, looking 
admiringly at her. 

“Oh, I don’t know that I have done more than any 
other girl would have done under the circumstances,” 
replied Maude, quietly. “You would have done just the 
same, Grace, I am sure.” 

“Well, I trust I may never be tried in such a way,” 
said Grace, tenderly. “How terribly you must have 
suffered, and without having any sympathy from any 
of us.” 

“Yes, that was a very hard part of it. But there, 
don’t let us speak of that past any more. Out of evil 
good lias come, for I think poor Gerald has quite come 
to liimself. If you had but seen how terribly cut up he 
was on learning all the results that flowed from just one 
of his thoughtless actions. But he is quite changed in 
almost every way ; and, only fancy, he and Uncle Jack 
are quite good friends now !” 

“Ah. dear Uncle Jack,” cried Grace, “how much we 
all owe to him ! He has been quite the good angel of the 
family. But I always liked him, you know. ” . • 

“Yes: Grace, but then you always try and find some- 
thing to like in everybody, while sohie of us try and find 
things to dislike. I am afraid I did in this case, at first. 
But I tliink he has quite forgiven me. ’ ’ 

As Grace passed Jack’s door, on her way to her 
own room, he opened it softly and beckoned to her to 
come in. 

“Oh. Gracie, darling,” he said, rapturously, “only 
think, Uncle Jack is a brick and no mistake ! What do 
you think he is going to do for me? No, you will never 
guess ! He has written me the splendidest letter — watched 
my conduct with approval— and so on— a lot of bosh— 


268 


! 

A POOR RELATION. 


but, he says, Lord Granton is anxious to do something 
for the family, and as he has a great deal to do with 
art in different ways it pleases him to offer to pay ail my 
expenses for a couple of years — or more, if necessary — 
while I study in Paris at VEcole des Beaux Arts” 

“Oh, Jack, how nice, how very nice! Why, you will 
be an artist yet 1 How glad I am ! ’ ’ 

“Just what I wanted most!” cried Jack. “I am a 
made man — ” 

“Yes, but not a made artist yet — ” 

“But on the way to be one, ’ ’ interrupted J ack. “There’s 
only one least little bit of a drawback,” he added, more 
slowly. 

“Why, what can that be?” asked Grace, who could see 
no drawback anywhere. 

“I would rather accept this great favor from Uncle 
Jack. You see Lord Granton has neglected Gerald 
so.” 

“But I think, by his wanting to help you, he is show- 
ing regret for that. And shall not a man do what he 
likes with his own? Perhaps he did not quite like Ger- 
ald’s asking him, or — well, perhaps, the tone of his let- 
ters. And then hearing all about you from' Uncle Jack, 
and his art sympathies being touched, he has been glad 
to do this.” 

“Yes,” said Jack, “and beggars mustn’t be choosers. 
It’s awfully good of him. Well, I’ll try and repay him 
by painting him a jolly good picture some day. Yes, 
Grace,” as he noticed she was looking at a letter on 
his writing-table, “I’ve been writing to tell Kate Ing- 
ham ; she’ll be so jolly glad.” ^ 

Grace smiled approvingly. She knew ‘Kate vras the 
I outh’s ideal of all that a girl should be, and that a 


A POOK RELATION, 


269 


very jjretty friendship was established between him 
and “the j oiliest girl” he had ever seen, as he once 
called her. Kate would rejoice in his success and write 
him a bright little letter full of sympathy, and Jack 
would carry it about in his breast-pocket many a day 
and read it over and over until it was wellnigh worn 
out. More than that Grace could not foresee ; they were 
both so young, their friendship might change in any 
way. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE MEETING AT LUCERNE. 

“ You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
Follow such creatures.? 

— Shakespeare. 

On leaving England the Hartleys made straight for 
Lucerne, where they engaged rooms at the Schweizerhof , 
with the intention of making that their headquarters for 
a week or two. 

With the exception of Maude, they were all in the high■^ 
est possible spirits and just in the disposition to enjoy a 
holiday and change in the midst of such new and lovely 
surroundings. Mrs. Hartley was rejoicing in the recovery 
— though they had been obliged to leave him at home — 
of her best-beloved child, who now, she thought, thanks 
to Uncle Jack, would liave no difficulty in finding the 


270 


A POOR RELATION. 


career best suited to his abilities. And perhaps the 
fond mother thought in her inmost heart that, with 
such a rich uncle as Uncle Jack had turned out to be, 
there would be no necessity for him to work at all. Any- 
way, her views and Uncle Jack’s were not likely to co- 
incide about the desirability of that. And then, another 
cause for her satisfaction arose from finding herself, as 
she phrased it, once more in her true position — among 
those of whom it may be said : “They toil not, neither do 
they spin.” Perhaps after her late struggles a little feel- 
ing of complacency on her part may be readily par- 
doned. 

Grace and George Turner — Uncle Jack had specially 
invited the latter to join them — were of course supremely 
liappy in each other’s society, and in forming together 
plans connected with the new life that lay before them. 
As they said, they ought to consider themselves most 
fortunate people in having two honeymoons— one before 
and one after the wedding-day. 

Perhaps, however. Uncle Jack felt happier than any 
of them. Eminently unselfish, a great part of his satis- 
faction arose from the contemplation of the content and 
delight now experienced by the rest of the party. More- 
over, he alone was untroubled by anxiety about Maude, 
because he felt confident that the cloud which hung 
dark, and apparently impenetrable, over her life would 
soon vanish. Already he saw the silver lining. 

As for Maude, she said to herself that she had the 
deepest cause for thankfulness. Gerald had been proved 
innocent of even unintentionally wounding the father of 
the man she still loved, and she had escaped from an en- 
gagement which had been from the very first odious to 
her in every way. Yes, but then she and Eustace were 


A POOR RELATION. 


271 


parted. They were still divided, although the obstacle 
which formerly stood between them was gone; nay, 
never had existed except in her imagination and in 
those of others. .But the truth had come out too late. 
She had sent Eustace away ; and she could not, dared not 
recall him. To do so would seem bold, unmaidenly 
and perhaps futile. -Perhaps, before that he had for- 
gotten her. Perhaps, even— and her heart sank at the 
very thought— he had learned to love another, fairer, 
richer, less capricious and inconstant, he would think, 
than herself. For he must have deemed her fickle and 
unstable. To send him from her and assign no reason ! 
Oh, no man could forget that. 

And so, she thought, there remained for her nothing 
to do but try and forget her lover and the happy dreams 
in which she had once indulged. 

Mrs. Hartley had learned from her brother the motives 
underlying her younger daughter’s apparently extraor- 
dinary conduct in first engaging herself to Crossland 
and then breaking ofif the engagement. With that ex- 
planation, too, was coupled the reason of Eustace Ing- 
ham’s conduct in suddenly ceasing his attentions to her. 
The mother was exceedingly pleased to find that she had 
not been at fault in fancying that he was attached to 
Maude. And, to do her justice, it must be stated also 
that she was gratified to discover how honorably the 
young man had behaved. She had been disposed to 
criticise harshly his abrupt departure from Marburn; 
now^ she learned that he went in grief and pain of 
mind because her daughter had dismissed him in a 
manner which must have been intensely galling. And 
then, her knowledge of Maude’s self-sacrificing spirit 
was not witliout good results to herself. She had never 


272 


A POOR RELATION. 


been one to bear the honors of martyrdom gracefully 
and with patience ; nor suffer the little trials and vexa- 
tions of life with a calm, tranquil and cheerful mind. 
Quite the contrary, in fact. Adversities, both small and 
great, rather tended to sour her naturally amiable temper 
and rendered her impatient and peevish, fretful and given 
to murmuring ; and Maude’s heroic behavior and uncom- 
plaining demeanor in the midst of heavy trials was not 
without a good influence upon her. Unconsciously, per- 
haps, she contrasted herself with Maude, and uncon- 
sciously, too, caught something of the girl’s spirit. 
Henceforward her love and devotion to Maude increased 
immensely, and every day she felt more and more dis- 
tress at seeing her sadness. She would fain have re- 
moved it, but, unfortunately, her discretion was hardly 
commensurate with her good wishes. 

“I am so grieved, dearest,” she whispered to Maude, 
one day When they were alone, “so grieved at seeing 
you are not as happy as the rest. But can’t we try 
and remove the little misunderstanding which arose be- 
tween you and Mr. Ingham. Supposing I were to write 
and — and explain matters a little.” 

A faint blush mantled the girl’s cheek for an instant. 
It seemed the harbinger of reviving hope. But the next 
moment it had gone, and deathly pallor speaking of de- 
spair resumed its seat. 

“No, mother,” she murmured, “you must not, must 
not do that. Perhaps by this time Eustace — Mr. Ingham 
has found out how easy it is for — for a man to forget. 
And if he came back to me it might be through mqre 
pity. And, oh, the very shame of even thinking that!” 
Here Maude covered her face with her slender hands. 
“Promise me, ' promise me, mother, you will not 


A POOK RELATION 


273 


write,” she urged, placing her arms caressingly round 
her mother’s neck. 

“No, of course not, my dear, since you don’t wish it,” 
said Mrs. Hartley, sorely troubled at her distress. 

A woman possessing a little more tact and— shall it 
be said? — finer feeling would have written to Eustace 
without consulting Maude. But then, if she had done 
so, and had received an unfavorable reply to her letter, 
she would not have been able to keep it strictly to her- 
self. For even a tender heart, unless allied with a dis- 
creet mind, may blunder into inflicting the severest 
wounds. 

Fortunately for Maude, however. Uncle Jack had 
taken her love affairs into his own hands. Even old 
bachelors are not always averse to a little romance, and 
no doubt, as a rule, prefer love stories with a happy 
ending. Uncle Jack, at least, did. What joy for him, 
then, to bring that smoothness to the coui*se of true love 
of which the poet speaks ! Having obtained Eustace 
Ingham’s address from his mother, he wrote to him, 
before leaving England, in a concise, businesslike manner, 
giving the true explanation of Maude’s rejection of his 
suit. Then, after stating that they were going on the 
Continent and intended to remain a few weeks at Lu- 
cerne, he ended by saying that he had written the letter 
without the cognizance of Maude or any of her re; 
lations. 

“There,” he said to himself, as he sealed the letter, 
“let no one say I haven’t done my duty toward these 
young people. If they don’t make it up again, why it 
won’t be my fault. I have given him a pretty broad 
hint, and we shall soon see whether he takes it or not. 
Some people might say, inelegantly, that I am throwing 


274 


A POOR RELATION. 


Maude at the young fellow’s head. Well, let people say 
or think what they like. I am not going to suffer the 
happiness of two young lives to be wrecked for want 
of a little explanation. Proper pride is all very well; 
but common sense is a good deal better.” 

Judging from his smile of satisfaction it was evident 
that Uncle Jack considered that he had displayed a re- 
markable amount of the latter, by no means common 
commodity, in writing to Eustace Ingham. 

The latter was at Venice, on his way home from Egypt, 
when Uncle Jack’s letter reached him. . He read it with 
feelings of the utmost bewilderment, which quickly 
changed into those of the utmost satisfaction, and, as 
he realized what it all meant, the most intense de- 
light. 

. Rushing off to the post-office, he sent a telegram to 
Hartley, saying he would -be in Lucerne at the earliest 
possible moment. * 

Two hours later he had left Venice. 

Upon arriving at Lucerne, and after engaging rooms 
at the Golden Eagle, he sent a note to' Uncle Jack asking 
the favor of a few minutes’ interview with him. 

Uncle Jack answered the letter in person and with tlie 
utmost speed. 

“How can I thank you sufficiently?” cried the young 
man, warmly shaking his hand and speaking with 
heightened color in his cheeks and eyes, which sparkled 
with delight. 

“The pleasure of seeing you here so sooii is quite 
sufficient return for anything I have done,” replied 
Hartley, with a smile. “It was 1-ather a delicate, busi- 
ness writing as I did, for I might have been snubbed for 
my pains in case— in case — ” 


A POOR RELATION. 


275 


“Yes, in case what?” asked Eustace, with an amused 
air. * 

“Why, confound it, man, you know what I mean — in 
case you had fallen out of love with the girll There, 
that’s a new expression for you; but the meaning of 
it is quite plain, I guess. ” 

“Yes, the expression, if somewhat new, is quite 
clear,” rej^lied Eustace. “Need I s«?/ that I have not 
changed?” 

“No,” replied the other, bluntly, “or you wouldn’t be 
here now. But there’s another thing I want to say now 
before you see Maude — she could hardly say it herself. 
That scoundrel Crossland forced the poor girl into an en- 
gagement with himself under the threat of denouncing 
Gerald as your poor father’s tnurderer ! There, what do 
you think of that? And, mark you, he knew all the time 
that Gerald was perfectly innocent.” 

“What a villain !” cried Eustace, hotly. “I should like 
to give him a horse- whipping ! And how poor Maude 
must have suffered,” he added, in gentler tones. 

“Suffered? I believe you ; and like a first-rate martyr, 
too, bravely, silently and patiently. Young man,” he 
went on, impressively, laying his hand on Ingham’s 
shoulder, “you have won the heart of an angel; take 
care how you treat such a priceless treasure.” 

Eustace made some incoherent reply, intended to be 
expressive of his future endeavors to deserve what he 
had won. Happiness is not always the best aid to clear 
thought or logical expression. But Uncle Jack seemed 
to consider his reply quite satisfactory. 

After a little further conversation, in the course of 
which, many little pointf^ connected with the history of 


276 


A POOR RELATION. 


the past few montlis were explained to Ingham ’s satis- 
faction, Hartley prepared to take his leave. 

“Before I go,” said he, “there is just one other matter 
to be settled : you would like to see Maude to-night, and, 
if possible, alone.” 

“I should, indeed,” said Eustace. 

“Of course. I quite understand that. The sooner you 
come to a perfect understanding the better. Very well, 
then, if you come to the Schweizerhof between seven 
and eight this evening, and inquire for our room, I will 
arrange that Maude shall be there by herself. How will 
that do?” 

“Oh, admirably; but it is rather a long time to wait,” 
replied Eustace, somewhat ruefully. 

“Rather long, eh?” said Uncle Jack, laughing. “Well, 
but I’m afraid I can’t arrange my little plot to give you 
a private interview sooner. My dear fellow, may you 
always find the hours of separation from that noble girl 
as hard to bear.” 

Maude readily consented to her uncle’s request that 
she would remain with him that evening when the 
others went out for a drive, probably imagining that 
he wanted her society all to himself. For they often 
took long walks together. 

“Wait for me here, dear,” he said, as he went out just 
after the others had gone, leaving her alone in their 
private sitting-room. 

Buried in painful, regretful thought about Eustace, the 
girl sat waiting until just as the clock in the nearest 
church-tower was chiming the half-hour a gentle knock 
came to the door. , 

“Come in,” she said, turning round from the window 
by which she was standing, expecting to see one of the 


A POOR RELATION. 


many friends they had made during their stay at Lu- 
cerne. 

The door opened, and Eustace Ingham stood before 
her. 

A stranger might have thought him an ill-timed visitor, 
for Maude remained as if rooted to the ground, calm and 
motionless, no word of greeting on her lips, no smile of 
welcome on her face. For a moment she stood gazing 
at him in bewilderment, then her eyes slowly drooped 
and she began to tremble violently. 

Eustace was infinitely distressed at observing how pale 
and wan she had grown since their last meeting. 

. For a brief time he, too, stood motionless, irresolute. 
Then hastily advancing toward her, and seizing one of 
her hands, he whispered, in tender, loving tones : “Maude, 
dearest, you will not send me from you again?” 

At the sound of his pleading voice the rich color rushed 
to the girl’s cheeks and the strength came back to her 
trembling limbs — for joy is a mighty stimulus — while 
her lovely eyes, luminous with happiness, were slowly 
uplifted to meet his ardent gaze. 

“No, Eustace,” she replied, in accents faint with ex- 
ceeding joy, “for there is nothing to separate us now.” 

The next moment she was folded in his arms. 


Happy, thrice happy the meeting when two who have 
parted in sorrow can meet again with no bitter memories 
of hasty, unkind words or cruel actions intruding like 
unbidden, unwelcome guests upon the sacred solemnity 
of that festival-time. Happy the twain when neither 
has aught to ask forgiveness for and neither has aught 


278 


A POOR RELATION. 


to forgive. When, although the music has suddenly 
ceased, there has been no little “rift within the lute.” 
When no nervous apprehensions, no ill-timed mistrust of 
the future, born of past experience, springs up irrepres- 
sible, resistless in the soul of one or botli ! And blissful 
beyond the powers of speech is the reunion of two lovers’ 
hearts, who, in a long interval of separation, full of 
trials and difficulties, have proved ever loyal to the voice 
of conscience, truth and duty. 


“Uncle Jack,” cried Maude, rushing toward him as 
he entered the room about half-past eight — he had al- 
lowed the lovers ample time to exchange a few confi- 
dences — “how could I ever tliank you for all you have 
done?” And she threw her arms round his neck, giving 
him at the same time two or three hearty kisses. “It 
was you,” she added, “it was you who wrote to Eus' 
tace.” 

“Ah, I see he has been telling tales,” and the old 
gentleman shook his head; “that’s bad, very bad. You 
mustn’t encourage him in that. But if you really want 
to thank me, well, try and look always as happy as you 
do now. Yes, and as pretty, too,” and he looked at her 
blushing face with a most critical eye. “You’ve no idea 
what difference a little color makes to a girl’s face.” 

“Ah, it’s easy to grow roses in your cheeks when— 
when you’ve got happiness in your heart, uncle, dear,” 
cried Maude, gayly. 


A POOR RELATION. 


279 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

CONCLUSION. 

crossland’s defeat. 

“ Falsehood and fraud shoot up in every soil, 

The product of all climes.” 

— Addison. 

On his return home two circumstances caused Cross- 
land the utmost astonishment. The first was that he 
found Ivy Cottage shut up. Even the maid-servant, the 
faithful but eccentric Jane, had deserted it, having gone 
home, he was informed, to her mother’s at Rushton. 
Where the family had gone to he had no means of as- 
certaining; indirect means, that is, for he dared not, 
make inquiries in the neighborhood, for the sake of^ 
appearances. Public opinion would have considered 
it a most remarkable thing that a young lady’s lover 
should be in complete ignorance as to her whereabouts. 
So out of deference to the opinions of others Crossland 
had to assume a little knowledge and conceal a condsid- 
erable amount of ignorance. 

He did inquire of the housekeeper at Willow Lodge 



280 


A POOR RELATION. 


when she expected Mr. Hartley to return, but that 
worthy woman was either unable or unwilling to give 
him any information. So he could only wait as patiently 
as he could, in the hope that some early j^ost would bring 
him a letter explaining what seemed so mysterious. 

The other cause of his astonishment was receiving 
“notice” from the police authorities at Rushton bidding 
him attend at the courthouse, on a certain date, to give 
evidence against William Sikes, then and there to be 
charged with unlawful trespass in pursuit of game, etc., 
etc. 

“What on earth do the stupid, meddling fools want 
with me?” muttered he to himself. “What do I know 
or care about SjJ^es and his poaching? Why, I don’t be- 
lieve the fellow lias been near ' the place lately — not 
since — ” and he uttered an exclamation of disgust. 

Later on in the day he met with Sikes, who, judging 
from his appearance, seemed to have a very slight dread 
of any penalities that miglit be awaiting his alleged in- 
fraction of the law. He was strolling along the village 
street, with liis hands in his pocket, smoking the pipe 
of sweet content. Nor did the sight of Crossland disturb 
his equanimity in the least. 

“Mornin’, sir,” said he, withdrawing one hand from 
his pocket in order to touch his cap to Crossland. 

“So you’ve got into trouble again, have you?” said 
Crossland, bruskly, giving him an angry glance. 

“Ain’t I unfortnit, sir?” said Sikes, with abroad grin 
on his face. “Jes to fancy they bobbies should have 


A POOR RELATION. 


281 


foun’ me out after all these months ! Mighty sharp they 
be a-gettin’, surelie!” 

“After all these months ! What did the man mean?” 
asked Crossland of himself. 

“Yes, sir,” said Sikes, answering his look of inquiry; 
“you know that there time as you citched me a-comin’ 
’ome from Harden Spinney. ” 

Crossland turned away in disgust and alarm. What 
a misfortune that the police should be raking up that 
affair of all others ! 

There was a full bench of magistrates and a crowded 
court on the day of Sikes’s trial. It seerned as if public 
interest had been aroused. But why? Crossland couldn’t 
attempt to answer the question. After all, Sikes was 
only a vulgar if somewhat notorious poacher. And his 
appearance before the authorities was a pretty frequent 
event. But the solution of the mystery appeared to 
Crossland later on in the day. ; 

Sikes’s case occupied but little time.» Crossland was 
the; chief witness. On being called, he testified to having 
caught him, on the 18th of November, returning from the 
direction of Harden- Spinney with certain pheasants and 
rabbits in his possession. 

“Could you give the approximate time when you 
caught him?” inquired Hr. Walters, the prosecuting 
solicitor. 

“Oh, yes, I think so,” replied Crossland, carelessly. 
“Let me see. Oh, yes, I heard the turret clock striking 
three just a few minutes before. ” • - 


282 


A POOR KEX.ATION. 


"Thank yon,” replied Mr. Walters, "that will do,” and 
Crossland sat down. 

Then the village constable testified that he had met 
Sikes returning home in the village street just as the 
church clock was striking half-past three. He had 
searched him and found no game upon him. "Which 
was only likely when Mr. Crossland had taken it liim- 
self,” he added, in an injured tone. 

That concluded the case for the prosecution. There 
was no case for the defense. Mr. Sikes had retained 
no advocate, nor did he call any witness to refute, if 
possible, the evidence given against him. 

After a brief consultation with his brother magistrates 
the chairman of the bench pronounced that the defendant 
had been proved guilty of the offense alleged against 
him and must pay a fine of five pounds or go to prison 
for a month. 

Whereupon Sikes, with the utmost nonchalance and 
cheerfulness, produced and duly paid his fine. 

Then came the great sensation ofdlie day. Into the 
place just vacated by Sikes stepped Gerald Hartley, 
attired in the gay uniform of a private in the 16th Lan- 
'cers. 

He, too, was charged with having been guilty of the 
same offense as Sikes — an offense committed at the same 
place and on the same night. 

Crossland could hardly believe that he saw and heard 
aright. Sikes stepped forward again. This time as a 
witness. He testified that on the night of the 18th of 


A POOR RELATION. 


283 


November, shortly before three o’clock in the morning, 
he was poaching in Harden Spinney when he suddenly 
heard a shot fired behind and felt the effect of it in his 
neck and shoulders. Thinking it was a keeper who had 
fired at him he hurriedly made his escape. Saw some 
one in front of him running ; getting a little nearer, per- 
ceived that it was the defendant, Gerald Hartley. The 
moon was shining very brightly, so had no difficulty in 
recognizing him — could see he had a gun with him. 

Substantially that was Sikes’s evidence. 

Then once more Crossland was called as witness, and, 
in answer to the inquiries of the prosecuting solicitor, he 
stated that he had seen the defendant returning home- 
ward from the direction of Harden Spinney on the night 
of the 18 th. 

“Can you tell us the exact time?” asked Hr. Walters. 

Crossland hesitated a moment. He knew how much 
depended upon his answer. But evasion, or willful de- 
nial, was out of the question. For in the court he saw 
his head groom ; the probability was that he also would 
be called as a witness; together they had seen Gerald 
Hartley. Horeover, his admission of _ having seen Sikes 
some few minutes after three approximately fixed the 
hour at which Gerald had passed his house. And so, 
truthfully, but with a sinking heart, he replied: “It 
was just striking three when I saw him.” 

“Ah, yes ; thank you. Hr. Crossland, that will do. Oh, 
by-the-by,” he added, as if it were an afterthought, 
“whereabouts did you find the defendant’s gun?” 


284 


A POOR RELATION. 


^ ‘About ]ialf-way between niy house and Harden Spin- 
ney,” replied Crossland. 

“Now, I think that will do,” returned Mr. Walters, 
blandly. 

“Yes, that will do,” was the mental comment of nearly 
every one in court that morning. For it was generally 
recognized that although the evidence given quite provetl 
Gerald Hartley guilty of one offense, it also quite proved 
him to be innocent of another and greater offense, that 
being the attack upon the late Squire Ingham. 

For it was well known that the deceased gentleman 
left his home at half-past three, and was shot, according 
to the eA'idence of his watch — a remarkably good time- 
keeper, which was stopped by the shot — exactly at four, 
an hour when it was now seen Gerald Hartley would be 
safe at home. 

The magistrates inflicted a fine, which Gerald also paid 
with great cheerfulness. 

As he left the court quite a crowd was assembled ; by 
many of whom he was regarded as an object of pitj". It 
seemed rather a shame, they thought, that the police 
should rake up a matter— merely a boyish freak, too— 
which had passed so many months ago. 

Others, however, who were a little more behind the 
scenes, loudly expressed their opinion that he had got 
off very lightly. Of course the charge of poaching was 
a mere “put-up job” arranged with the ostensible object 
of thoroughly clearing the young man of another and 
more serious offense, witli which his name had been 


A POOR RELATION. 


285 

♦ 

connected. Ah, it was not everybody in trouble who 
could explaiil away suspicious circumstances so easily 
as young Mr. Hartley. He ought to be very thankful, 
indeed. Perhaps this would be a lesson to him. And 
knowing that Gerald’s sister was engaged to Crossland, 
public opinion not unnaturally inclined to the belief 
that his appearance as witness was simply part of the 
plan which had been carried out with such satisfactory 
results. 

Crossland drove home, conscious of defeat. He had 
played for high stakes and lost. Maude would never be 
his ; for of course she knew everything ! Everything ; 
the fullest extent of his infamy. No, she would never 
be his. But now she was free to marry Ingham. Doubt- 
less he would soon learn the truth, and then eagerly 
come forward again, to woo successfully where he had 
himself so completely failed. 

That tliought filled Crossland’s heart with the fury of 
hell, and he ground his teeth in mortification and 
rage. 

The next morning brought additional pangs. For he 
received a packet from Maude, containing his presents, 
and a brief note, stating that the engagement between 
them was at an end. 

Crossland’s mind as to his future arrangements was soon 
made up. To remain in Marburn after what had hap- 
pened was out of the question. The prospect of living 
there, so near, and seeing Maude and Eustace engaged 


286 


A POOR RELATION. 


and then happily married was quite intolerable. The 
bare idea caused excjuisite torture. 

A M'ay of escape lay before him. A wealthy friend 
was wishing to invest money in land. Crossland offered 
him his estate at a reasonable price, on condition his 
mother should be allowed to make the house her home 
while she lived. The offer was accepted, and long be- 
fore Maude returned from Switzerland Crossland left 
Marburn forever. 


The fine old bells of the ancient church of Marburn 
rang merrily on the day when th young squire, as 
Eustace was still called, married Maude Hartlej', while 
at the same time her sister and the very popular, be- 
cause always kind, agent, George Turner, were also 
united in the bonds of holy matriiiion}'. 

The joyous sound was carried far and wide, and even 
penetrated to old Job Turner’s fireside and could be 
heard even by his dull ears. 

“Ay, but it’s grand,’’ he said, in his thin, querulous 
tones, “to think that our lad should marry a right ladv 
like Miss Hartley, and have a fine income of his own ! 
Ay, and I’m glad her sister didn’t marry that Crossland. 
A bad man!’’ and he shook his head. “They sav he’s 
gone clean away and won’t come back no more. What 
did the old Psalm say, Mary? ‘Their place will know 
them 710 more." Them that’s been bad and lifted up and 


A POOR RELATION. 


287 


proud like Crossland. Now he’s gone — and his place 
knows him lio more. Not but I’m soriy for him, too — 
just now, when everybody’s glad — it seems a pity, a great 
pity, he should be so sad — and his mother left alone in 
her old age.” 

Mrs. Turner turned and looked at him with a very 
wistful expression in her patient face. Was he learning 
a brighter note, after a lifetime spent in harping on a 
minor key? 

“God help him,” she said, softly, “and make him a 
better man.” Then, after a little pause, she added: 
“I’m so pleased that Mr. Hartley is going to leave Miss 
Maude and Mr. Ingham the Hall, and all the land the 
family used to occupy, in his will. That is as it should 
be — then Mr. Eustace will come to his own. And if 
his mother and uncle live tliere, while he is busy in 
London at his work as a barrister, they* will keep the 
place up nicely and everything right until it becomes 
his.” 

“Ay,” said old Job, “he has always been a good lad. 
And I hold with the good ones getting their reward, I do. 
He’ll live there in his old age. What did your favorite 
verse say, Mary? Oh, I know,” his eyes closed and he 
added, drowsily: “ ‘Mark the perfect man — for the end 
of — that man— is peace.’ ” And with that his head fell 
back against the cushions of his old armchair, and, 
worn out with the emotions which had stirred his heart, 
he fell asleep. 

Mrs. Turner knelt beside him on the soft rug, and, 


288 


A POOR RELATION. 


while happy tears tilled her eyes, her lips uttered a low 
but sincere prayer of thankfulness. Her old husband 
was indeed greatly changed for the better, an<l the 
knowledge of this crowned her happiness tiiat day. 


THE END. 



Homeless ! 


That’s the way your husband 
feels, when you’re trying to clean 
house in the old-fashioned, hard- 
working, fussy way. ■ 

It’s enough to drive any man 
to take the first steps down- 
ward. You can just as well 
make home pleasant while 
you are making it clean. 
Take Pearline to it. 
That saves so much work 
hat house-cleaning is no trouble, either to the 
vorker, or the. looker-on. It’s sooner over, and 
t’s better done. 


beware of imitations. 


330 


JAMES PYLE, New York. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII 


A STORY OF THE SANDWICH 
ISLANDS REVOLUTION 


BY 

ALFRED R. ('ALHOUN 


Specially written for “ Once a Week Library 


New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
1803 


Kntered accordins: to Act of Congrosn, in the year 1803, by 
^ Peter Fenelov Collier, 

in the OfRcc of the Librarian of Congress at ‘Washington. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


INTRODUCTION. 

No ALIEN land in all the world has so strong an attrac- 
tion, so profound a charm for the American who has 
trod its emerald shores, as beautiful “Hawaii” — the 
native, and hence the proper, name for what Captain 
Cook, their discoverer, called the “Sandwich Islands,” 
Sleeping or waking, how lovingly its beauties haunt me 
as I, fresh from its ever-blooming gardens and ever-burn- 
ing volcanoes, sit down to write, from a heart that is full 
of it, the story of the last great drama enacted in that 
fair land, for whose possession the maritime nations of 
the world are intriguing lo-day. 


• CHAPTER I. 

THE PARADISE OF THE PACIFIC. 

Two MILES back from the capital city of Honolulu 
there rises an extinct volcano, known far and near as 
the “Punch Bowl,” and accessible from the town by a 
fine road. 

People in carriages, well-mounted equestrians and ener- 
getic pedestritns usually swarm about the Punch Bowl’s 
rugged crest when the sun is setting, for then the ocean 
breeze is always cool and refreshing, and from Diamond 

( 3 ) 


4 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Head, to the east, to Pearl Harbor, on the west, there is 
such a panorama of exquisite beauty spread out before 
the observer as entrances newcomers and gives a never- 
ceasing delight to those who have seen it before. 

The short twilight of the tropics was fading over Hono- 
lulu, but this evening the Punch Bowl appeared to be 
deserted, no doubt because the black cloud banners that 
threatened one of those brief but violent storms peculiar 
to these islands streamed out from Diamond Head and 
veiled the Pali’s bloody cliff. The pulsating glow of sheet 
lightning illuminated these clouds, and a hoarse grum- 
bling came down from the mountains to the garden- 
embowered city by the sea. 

From the jungle of lantana, that clothes the Punch 
Bowl from base to crest, two young men, with a back- 
ward glance to make sure their horses were secure, 
walked out to the circular protecting wall around the 
summit. That they were men of nerve, or so familiar 
with the scene that they had a contempt for its dangers, 
was shown by the fact that they sat down on the wall, 
nor seemed to give thought to the fact that a stone, loos- 
ened by one as he adjusted himself to the place, plunged 
down for eight hundred feet of nearly precipitous de- 
scent. 

Both these young men were dressed after the fashion of 
horsemen in Hyde Park, the Bois de Boulogne or Cen- 
tral Park. One was short, stout, blue-eyed, and had the 
florid face and thick neck which are usually found as- 
sociated with men who know no enjoyment beyond those 
of the senses. Yet there was a set to the jaws, an ex- 
pression about the chin and a certain firmness in his bear- 
ing that denoted force and had in it the suggestion of a 
military training. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


5 


The other man, although not above medium height, 
looked taller, because of his slender, erect figure and 
a certain easy, tigerish grace in his movements that in- 
dicated a rare union of strength and activity. The long 
black hair, the well-cut, olive features, the gleaming- 
white teeth, and the dark eyes, that seemed to glow 
as if with* an internal light, told that the man, whose 
age could not have been more than five-and- twenty, Avas 
a native, but a native of higher type and finer fiber than 
the average people of his race. 

One by one, from amid the groves of palm and crimson 
hybiscus, the lights in Honolulu became visible, and the 
breakers that had seemed, as the man advanced to the wall, 
like rising and fading lines of snow on the shore became 
banks of liquid fire— never seen outside the tropics — 
banks that glowed wfith a strange, green, phosphorescent 
light, suggestive of cold rather than heat, like the flash- 
ing of the aurora borealis on an arctic wintry night. 

That these men had not come up to view the scenery 
w*as shown by the fact that they did not look at it, but 
sat on the wall for some, minutes without speaking, each 
appearing to be wrapped in his own thoughts and in the 
contemplation of the other’s face. 

Captain Paul Featherstone, the white man, was the 
first to break the silence. Speaking in accents that un 
mistakably bespoke his English nationality, and that in- 
dicated association wdth cultured people if not culture 
itself, he said : 

“Kohala, I agree with you that tlie time is ripe for 
action. Since we first met, when you were studying in 
Paris two years ago, my faith in your claims to the 
tlirone of Hawaii and my appreciation of your fitness 
for the position have grown stronger and stronger. Put 


6 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


I would be a fool and not your friend if I closed my 
eyes to the difficulties that beset you — that beset us — for 
I have linked my fate with yours. Now that we are on 
the ground, we find a queen on the throne, whom your 
countrymen regard as legitimate, and with Americans 
among her advisers ; but she is too blind to see that they 
are planning to depose her and to make Hawaii a part 
of their overgrown republic. ’ ’ 

Kohala, the young Hawaiian, tossed over the battle- 
ment a fragment of rock with which he had been toy- 
ing and responded in tones that indicated impatience. 

'‘I still think. Captain Featherstone, that you continue 
to misunderstand me.” 

“In what way?” asked the captain, in surprise. 

“In this way: Have I not proven clearly to you and 
to other friends that I, as the known, though as yet 
unrecognized, only male descendant of the great King 
Kamehameha, am the rightful sovereign of Hawaii?” 

“Unmistakably,” replied the captain, in a voice that 
showed he considered this settled beyond the possibility 
of doubt. 

“And have I not also told you and other friends that 
personally I cared nothing for the throne, that indeed 
I was not a believer in the divine right or any other 
right of kings, that I was and am at heart a republi- 
can?” said Kohala, in a voice raised above the previous 
key, but which only served the more to bring out its 
melody [and to show that he loved to dwell on vowel 
sounds, but had no fondness for the harsher consonants 
that distinguish our Northern speech. 

“Surely, you have told me all that,” replied the cap- 
tain, “and, as your friend, I have not hesitated to oppose 
your views. I am an Englishman, and so believe in kings, 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


rv 
d 

and queens, too, and so do not believe in the license of 
republics, such as we see in that overgrown monster to 
the east, through which you and I recently traveled.” 

“Captain Featherstone,” said Kohala, in graver accents 
and wiih his line, expressive face upraised to the lowering 
clouds, “I must still cling to my opinion about kings.” 

“And give up your claims to the throne?” 

“A man is not fit to be a king whom his people, if 
left free to choose, would not select for a ruler. I have 
traveled through many lands, and my heart has bled at 
the vice, the poverty and the degradation that seem 
inseparable from civilization where kings rule, and to 
some extent in modern republics; but it is from this 
that I would save the remnant of my race. A century 
ago we numbered nearly half a million; to-day we are 
barely forty thousand. We have had kings and queens 
in Hawaii since and before the time of Cook’s unfortu- 
nate discovery. Yet the work of civilization, of your 
civilization (?) goes on. The missionary is here, but so is 
the liquor seller ; and the adventurer who has seized on 
our most beautiful valleys, and forced into the volcanic 
hills the natives who will not work in his sugar and 
coffee fields. I believe that the God of the white man 
is the God of the Hawaiian, and that He never meant 
that we should be destroyed, and that a race that wor- 
ships only wealth and the power it represents should 
send us to the grave and erect their palaces where we 
were once so happy. I want to arouse the people to a 
sense of their duty. I want to show them that a de- 
scendant of the great king who united them is ready 
to lead them in the assertion of their rights, and tliat 
he is willing to die for them, if his death will accomplisli 
tlie purpose that is so near and so dear to his heart, 


H 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


and that fills him and thrills him, whether sleeping or 
waking.” 

“All this is noble,” said the Englishman, “but is it 
practical?” 

“Whatever is right must be made practical,” replied 
Kohala, with spirit. 

“True; still we must take things as they are and not 
as we would have them.” Then with a forced laugh 
that indicated his feelings and character more than any- 
thing he said, Captain Featherstone added: “We live in 
a practical age — an age of selfishness, when dreamers 
are laughed at or forced to the wall. My country, Eng- 
land, has flourished because she realizes that material 
prosperity is the only foundation of success. If you see 
fit to adopt her methods, as I have told you before, you 
will find her a friend. She can place you on the throne 
and keep you on it, but it will be necessary for you to 
follow her instructions — ” 

“And to be her tool — her slave?” broke in Kohala. 

“No; to be her ally and her friend. Republics may 
foster slaves ; it is England’s boast that every man breath- 
ing the air protected by her flag is a free man. But a 
storm threatens, let us be getting back. And then, I 
think the queen will be disappointed if you are not at 
the ball to-night. ” 

' “She would rather see me there dead than alive,” 
said Kohala, and, as he arose from the wall, another 
stone was loosened and went thundering into the valley 
in the direction of Honolulu. 

“And the beautiful widow, Mrs. Holmes. Don’t you 
think she will miss you if you are absent from tlie palace 
to-night?” laughed the Englishman, as they turned in 
the direction of the horses. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


9 


“Would the sun miss one of the smaller planets that 
circle about it, seen only by its light? No; I might 
miss the face of the fair Englisliwoman from the scene, 
but amid so many admirers, men of her own race, Mar- 
guerite Holmes could hardly be aware that Kohala, the 
Kanaka pretender, was present or absent,” 

This was said with some bitterness, yet there was that 
in tlie young prince’s accents, and particularly in the 
caressing way in which he pronounced the lady’s name, 
that told he did not regard her as an ordinary mortal. 

By the time the two men were in the saddle the storm 
that had been gathering about the mountains to the 
north burst upon the Punch Bowl and shut out the 
myriad electric lamps that had been glowing with a 
cold white light in the direction of Honolulu. 

The winding road from the crest of the hill was un- 
obstructed and of easy descent, and the horses were eager 
to be back in their stalls, so the riders gave them free 
rein, and flew down to the line at a gallop, which was 
maintained till they swept into grounds illuminated by 
lamps and tlie light coming through the windows of 
a broad, Icvv cuilding, about which ran a wdde piazza, 
such as is peculiar to the better class of houses in Hono- 
lulu. 

As the riders dismounted two native men appeared to 
take the horses, and tlie salaams and salutations of love 
and respect with wdiich they greeted Kohala showed that 
lie had at least tw^o strong adherents in the capital of 
Haw aii. 


10 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE BALL AT THE PALACE. 

Set amid groves of palms and surrounded by parterres 
of ever-blooming flowers, the national palace at Hono- 
lulu, with its stately architecture and its indications of 
refined taste and exquisite luxury, presents a pleasing 
picture when seen under the blaze of the midday sun. 
At all hours a native soldier, in a white uniform, paces . 
on guard before the cataract of marble steps leading up 
to the grand entrance hall, and this adds to the air of 
exclusiveness that seems to bar the structure from the 
outside world, as a great wall might not do. 

But beautiful and inviting though the palace is in the 
golden sunlight, it becomes doubly so at night, when 
Queen Liliuokalini (pronounced Lily-wak-a-lee-nee) gives 
a fete champetre, a band concert or a ball. On such 
occasions the palace is all aglow with light, and ' the 
great doors and windows are opened to permit it to 
pour out in soft golden streams. The cunning of the 
Chinese gardeners is invoked, and a wonderful trans- 
formation is effected. Tiny fairy-lamps are concealed • 
so skillfully among the flower-banks that each blossom 
seems to glow' with its own light. Like luminous fruit, ' 
colored lamps flash amid the graceful fronds of the 
towering palms, and arches of colored lights span the 
winding walks, and festoons of lights, like vines of 
iridescent flame, link the trees and dazzle the sight of 
the beholder. ' 

Behind a screen of flowering cacti and plumelike 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


11 


ferns the Queen’s band is concealed on these festive 
occasions, but this serves but to increase the effect of 
the music that fills the palace halls, and sets the light 
feet of the pleasure-seekers ^-moving, and forces the walk 
of the promenaders into a dancing measure, till even the 
most prosaic feels that he has left the harsh, materialistic 
world behind liim and is transported to fairyland. 

Newcomers to Hawaii, who had been honored by an 
invitation to the Queen’s ball to-night, feared tliat the 
storm that burst on the city after sunset would interfere 
with tlie attendance, or at least with the pleasure of the 
occasion ; but the older residents, who knew how brief 
these storms were, laughed at their fears, and declared 
that the rain would add to the attractiveness of the ball, 
by laying the dust and cooling the air ; and they were 
right. 

By nine o’clock that evening the sky was as clear as 
if it had never floated a raincloud. The moon and the 
larger stars shone down with a brilliancy unknown in 
higher latitudes ; and from over the coral barrier reef 
there came the droning sound of the breakers, lulling 
the city to sleep. But to the gay throngs in and about 
the palace the night would be all too short, nor would 
the morning be welcome that brought repose. 

From long lines of carriages, ladies and gentlemen in 
evening dress, and of all nationalities, descended and 
poured up the great stairs to the apartments where 
attendants took charge of their wraps, then came down 
to the drawing-room to pay their respects to the Queen, 
who, surrounded by her maids of honor, received them 
with graciousness and dignit}', some of which was nat- 
ural, but much more of which was assumed. 

The Queen’s dazzlinc;: evening dress served to make 


12 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


more pronounced the more than becoming plumpness 
of her figure, while it intensified the darkness of her 
complexion. The full, sensuous lips and a certain in- 
describable ftquetry in her manner, which was par- 
ticularly perceptible when she was talking to gentlemen, 
told that fifty-two years, while they might have left sil- 
ver streaks in the regal dowager’s hair, had not weak- 
ened her opinion of her powers to captivate. 

Queen Liliuokalani’s maids of honor on this occasion 
were, with two exceptions, Hawaiians. With more 
adroitness, or less faith in her own simple but anti- 
quated charms, the Queen might have selected young- 
women whose beauty was less pronounced ; but she had 
not done so. The exquisite olive faces, framed in masses 
of dark hair, rendered blacker and more luminous by in- 
tertwined crimson blossoms, the finely molded arms 
and busts and the lithe, graceful forms of the Hawaiian 
maids of honor were well calculated to withdraw from 
Her Majestj^ the admiring glances of the uniformed 
officers and foreign representatives who attended the 
ball. 

It has been said that two of the maids of honor, though 
their position as such was only for this evening, were not 
natives. One of these was a beautiful American girl, 
Alice Ellis, the daughter of one of the richest sugar 
planters on the island, and the other was an English- 
woman, who at the first glance did not seem to be a 
person who could attract much attention; this was 
“Mrs. Marguerite Holmes,” as her cards indicated. 

Mrs. Marguerite Holmes had been in Honolulu less 
than a year. She had left England for California some 
eighteen months before this, in the hope of restoring the 
health of her husband, Professor Holmes, who, it was 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


13 


said, contracted, from overstudy at Oxford, the disease 
which sent him to the grave before he had been a month 
at Los Angeles. When, soon after her husband’s death, 
Mrs. Holmes came to Hawaii, and said it was for her 
health, no one was inclined to dispute her, for she was 
frail to emaciation, and she had such an innocent, girl- 
ish expression and was so unworldl}^ as to call for the 
protection of strong men, and, at first, for the sympathy 
of her own sex. 

. If Mrs. Holmes’s most ardent admirer— and it will be 
seen that she had many such — were asked if she were 
beautiful the unhesitating answer would be “No.” If 
asked if she were pretty, the answer would be varied 
and qualified ; but if asked if she were attractive, and 
particularly to men who imagined they had reached 
years of discretion, it would be generally conceded that 
she was decidedly so. But as she was neither intellect 
ual nor accomplished, though unmistakably well bred, 
her most ardent advocate — and she needed such — would 
be at a loss to tell in what she excelled or why he was 
drawn so irresistibly to her. 

Mrs. Holmes was of medium height, aud so slender 
as to seem angular in contrast with the superbly formed 
women about her. Her neck was thin, but this, like 
every other physical defect, was concealed by the skill 
of her comparatively plain yet perfectly arranged attire. 
Her finely formed head was covered by a coil of silky, 
gold-bronze hair, that glistened with a rich metallic 
sheen under the lights. Over the forehead the wavy 
fringe looked very much darker and suggested to the 
trained eye the ravages of the curling-iron. The fore- 
head was low, but fairly broad and full over the temples. 
The eyebrows were imusually thick, meeting over a by 


14 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


no means classic nose, and they looked black in contrast 
with tlie hair. The eyes, long-lashed and gray, and with 
an expression that momentarily changed from girlish 
coyness to skilled coquetry, were the redeeming feature 
of the face. The complexion was pale, the mouth almost 
childish in its pouting uncertainty, and the chin far 
from indicating strength. Yet, taken as a whole, and 
particularly when animated, Mrs. Holmes looked like 
an innocent, captivating girl of nineteen, thougli she 
confessed to being twenty-six. 

This was the woman about whom all Honolulu was 
now talking, some in unmistakable laudation and others 
in doubt and denunciation quite as positive. To some 
she was a gentle, guileless, charming woman, who needed 
protection and sympathy ; to others she was a heartless, 
designing adventurer, if. indeed, she were not something 
far worse. 

The crush of visitoi's had been received by the Queen, 
and she was about to withdraw, vdisn the names of 
Kohala and Captain Paul Featherstone were announced. 
Barely bowing to the English mmi, who at once drew Mrs. 
Holmes to one side and entered into earnest conversa- 
tion with her. the Queen gave lier young countryman 
her hand, which he did not kiss, as the others had done, 
and said in good English : 

‘T feared, my cousin, that you would not lionor us to- ' 
night?” 

“I was caught in the storm,” he said, “but I am too 
good a Hawaiian not to regard as a command tlie invi- 
tation of our Queen.” 

“ I might, indeed, believe your presence a compliment 
and an indication of your loyalty did I not fear that 
another and a more powerful attraction than mvself 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


15 


brought you to the palace to-night. ’ ’ Here the Queen 
smiled and inclined her head toward Mrs. Holmes ; then 
before the young man could recover from his evident 
confusion and reply, she added: “But as we can talk 
again this evening, I shall not detain you. I fully appre- 
ciate your eagerness to be with another.” 

With this sally Her Majesty waved her hand, and, fol- 
lowed by nearly all her maids, left the drawing-room. 

One of the girls, who remained back, was a Hawaiian 
of not more than seventeen. She was a lithe, beautiful 
girl, with a face as perfect as ever sculptor’s chisel 
f ormed,‘ and eyes such as never a painter transferred to 
canvas. This girl was Leila, daughter of Keona, a re- 
nowned prince or chief of the great fire island of Hawaii, 
to the southeast of Oahu,' on which Honolulu is situated. 

As Kdhala moved in the direction of Mrs. Holmes he 
felt a light touch on his arm, and turning, with the quick 
start of one rudely aroused from a dream, he saw the 
beautiful Leila standing with drooping head beside him. 

Taking her hand, after a pause, like one obeying a 
second impulse, Kohala said : 

“Leila, I did not expect to see you here. When did 
you leave your father, and how did you leave him?” 

“I left him well, two days ago,” she replied. Then in 
a' voice sunk to a flutelike whisper: “I bear you a mes- 
sage from my father, Kohala, and must see you to- 
night.” 

“I shall And you within the hour,” was his response. 

Leila followed in the direction the Queen had taken, 
but Kohala did not see that as she passed out her left 
hand was pressed to her heart, as if to still a pain. 

The instant Captain Featherstone saw the young Ha- 
waiian approaching he turned to Mrs. Holmes, gave her 


16 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


a meaning glance and then moved off toward the 
dancers. 

Kohala was evidently confused, and hesitated for a 
second as he held Mrs. Holmes’s ungloved hand, but 
with grace and tact, and one of those arch smiles that 
were the strongest weapons in her armory, she said : 

“I have been standing here looking for you all evening, 
Kohala, and now that you have rested my heart by com- 
ing I want you to take me to a place where I can rest 
my feet and we can talk without being disturbed.” 

“When you so well express my wishes,” he said, with 
a pleased smile and a blush that lighted up his olive face, 
“there is no need for me to talk; indeed, I never can 
talk when you are near me. At such times I am quite 
content and happy in looking and watching. ’ ’ 

“And in coining princely compliments,” she said, 
with the slightest additional pressure on the arm she 
had taken and a glance through those wonderful long- 
lashes that would have been potent with a more ex- 
perienced man than Kohala. 

The Queen’s enemies, and there were many such, 
wondered wliy he had taken such a fancy to the young 
English widow, and some thought they saw in it an in- 
dication of England’s secret diplomacy; while still 
others shrugged their shoulders and whispered the old 
adage: “Birds of feather flock together.” And now as 
Kohala made his way to the gardens, evidently uncon- 
scious of everything but the slender, girlish figure by 
his side, men and women of both parties and all parties 
looked after them, and there were meaning nods and 
winks; and one lady, speaking with a decided New 
England accent, said to her escort : 

“Well, she has a fiin^ selection of sweethearts. To my 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


17 


certain knowledge she is leading an old Mormon i^riest 
who lives near here to believe she is in love with him ; 
and one of her greatest admirers, a young fellow who 
felt he must wear good clothes to stand well with her, 
was arrested a few days since for forgery. Old or 
young, black or white, she doesn’t seem to care so that 
he’s a man easily led and ready to be fooled. Bah ! I 
loathe women of that class; they foster scandal and 
breed divorces!” 

At the further end of the grounds from the palace there 
was and is a little summer-house, where at times the 
Queen retires when she wishes to be undisturbed. To- 
night, with the moonlight sifting through the tangle of 
vines and falling on the broad rustic seat, it was an 
ideal place for lovers. 

To this place Kohala escorted Mrs. Holmes, and when 
they were seated he still retained her hand. It was 
steady and cool, and his trembled and was feverish. 

“Ah, with you by my side, Kohala,” she said, with 
a touch on his arm that thrilled him, “this is far more 
delightful than the crowd, of which I have a horror, or 
the dancing, for which I never care— unless I can select 
my own partner, and as yet the world has not advanced 
enough to give us poor women that privilege.” 

“Tlie world will soon be advanced enough,” said 
Kohala, “to. give to every human being every right 
that God intended that his children should enjoy—” 

“Oh, now you are going to talk about liberty, and 
all that; things that I do not understand,” she said, 
poutingly. 

“No,” he responded, “to-night I am going to talk of 
something that you, more than any woman I ever met, 
should understand peri^ectly.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Oh, Koliala, you frighten me !” she said, as she drev,- 
nearer to him in her winning, childlike fasliion, and 
clung to his arm as if to be protected from himself. 
Then, as if reassured by the contact: “But go on, and 
tell me what this subject is.“ 

“It is love !“ he said, and he bent over her till she must 
have felt his hot breath on her cheek. 

“Love?” she repeated, questioningly. 

“Yes, love; my love! But why should I tell you that 
of wliicli your own heart must have convinced you. 
Marguerite?” 

“Do not call me ‘Marguerite’; those who like me call 
me Flossy,” she said. 

“Flossy let it be ! Flossy, you knowhow I love you! 
You know that I have one great purpose in life, a pur- 
pose for which I would give my life I Yet you are 
nearer and dearer than that. Now give me the answer 
for which my heart has hungered since first we met !” 

His arms were about her, and she made a faint effort 
to avoid the torrent of kisses which he rained on her 
face, that was never for an instant averted. 

At length, though it may have been because of a rustle 
in tlie vines near by, he released her, and gasped : 

“Now give me my answer ! Do you love me?” 

“I love you as I never loved man before,” she replied. 

“And you will be my wife? my queen?” 

“Do not ask me that now. You must have patience. 
Wait, Kohala, wait till I have had tiine to think. No. 
not now!” she said, for she had risen to her feet and 
he was trying to draw her down to his side. “Let us 
go back to the palace. I — I am afraid we are watched !” 

Slie had no fear of their beimr watched, nor did she 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


19 


suspe«t it, as on his arm she returned to the palace, yet 
such was the case. . 

It was not to play the spy, but to ease the anguish at 
her own heart that Leila stole away from her friends 
in the palace and sought the seclusion of the garden. 
She was about to enter the summer-house when the 
low murmur of voices told her it was occupied. Before' 
she could retrace her steps, Kohala and Marguerite 
Holmes came out, and as they disappeared in the di- 
rection of the palace the beautiful girl clung to the 
arbor for support and sobbed: 

“Oh, she is heartless, and her plaything is the most 
precious thing in life to me ? 


• CHAPTER HL 

THE CONSPIRATORS. 

“How DOES she live?” was a question which people skep- 
tical as to Mrs. Holmes often asked each other. The 
answer was usually an arching of the eyebrows or a 
shrug of the shoulders. This question applied to the 
lady’s resources and not to the manner of her living. 
It was well known that with a maid, brought with her 
from England— this “maid,” as her mistress called her, 
was a taciturn woman of five-and-forty— Mrs. Holmes 
lived in the one-half of a large furnished cottage, rented 
from a respectable couple who had more room than they 
needed. 

As Mrs. Holmes neither borrowed nor ran into debt 
her enemies were disappointed, for from their first dis- 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


W 

like they had prophesied that she would do both before 
long, and that she would skip away on some steamer, 
when she was quite ready, and leave her creditors to 
curse their credulity. 

It was the morning following the Queen’s ball, and 
those who had attended, and whose duties did not call 
them up, were asleep. Mrs. Holmes, dressed in a loose 
red w'rapper of some soft material that gave by its re- 
flection a becoming glow to her usually pale cheeks, 
had had her breakfast by nine o’clock and was out in 
the garden attending the flowers, in her great love for 
which there certainly w^as no affectation. Suddenly, slie 
came upon a lame kitten under the bushes, and though 
she had never seen it before, with a cry of mingled pain 
and sympathy she caught the little creature up, pressed 
it to her breast and ran into her own bedroom, which 
opened by swinging windows on the piazza? 

“Clem !’’ she called out— ‘Clem’ was the name by which 
she addressed the maid — “run across to Dr. Wallace and 
tell him I want him at once !’’ 

Without a word the maid ran out, and Mrs. Holmes 
was making tlie kitten comfortable on a pillow when 
a gray-headed man of sixty, with an unmistakable medi- 
cal expression, came in. He found Mrs. Holmes actually 
crying over the kitten. 

“Ah.’’ he said, as he recognized the object of her so- 
licitude, “I feared it was yourself, but I see it is my 
kitten.” 

“Then there is all the more reason I should be kind 
to it, and that you should cure it,” she said, drying her 
eyes with one hand and laying the other on his' arm. 

The doctor was a widower, but the expression in his 
eyes, as he turned to the woman, told that his remaining 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


21 


so would depend enitrely on her. He told her the kitten 
would soon be all right, adding, as he held her hand be- 
fore leaving : 

“If it should keep ill it will give me a good profes- 
sional excuse for calling.” 

She looked at him in a way that said plainer than 
words: “I shall always be rejoiced to see you.” 

“They may slander that little widow as they please,” 
said Dr. Wallace to a friend, to whom he related this 
incident shortly afterward, “but a woman with such a 
heart and such childlike ways must be an angel . V' 

The doctor had been gone but a few minutes when 
Clem came into the chamber where her mistress was 
still fondling the cat and said that Captain Feather- 
stone wished to see her in the parlor. 

Mrs. Holmes hastily arranged her hair before a mirror, 
fastened a blue blossom in the high collar of her wrapper 
and went to see her guest. She gave the captain the 
same sweet smile she had given the doctor, and her re- 
ception was made more pronounced by her extending to 
him both hands ; and, not to be outdone, he 'raised the 
hands to his lips and kissed them alternately. 

“You have a wonderful constitution,” he said, admir- 
ingly. “I feared you would be very weary after last 
night’s carouse, but you are as fresh as a daisy. Now 
sit down, Marguerite — beg pardon. Flossy — and tell me 
the situation.” And the captain placed a chair for her 
and sat down facing her. 

“There is not much to tell at present,” she said, with 
her eyes cast down in a pretty, demure way on her 
thin, interlocked fingers. “He wants me to marry him, 
and if I agreed to do that, I am certain he could be made 
to relinquish his republican notions.” 


22 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“And why can’t you agree? Mind you, I don’t say 
that you shall marry him, that I could not stand ; but 
we must be able to lead him. This is the situation : Tlie 
natives on the other islemds, and many here, believe he is 
the rightful heir to the throne of Hawaii, and they are 
ready to depose the Queen, if Kohala announces him- 
self. With this young man on the throne, England can 
dominate these islands and the Yankees will be beaten 
at their own game ; for if the adherents of Kohala do 
not oust the Queen the Americans will, and once they 
hoist their flag here and announce a protectorate they 
will be in control, and they will keep it. Success means 
a fortune to us. Marguerite, a future and a home in dear 
old England. I know it is not in your nature to play a 
false part, but for the present you must be an actor and 
hold your power over Kohala.’’ 

There was evidently a perfect understanding between 
these two; certainly the captain believed so. He had 
faith in Marguerite Holmes, but then so did any man 
who came within reach of her remarkable influence. 

While Captain Featherstone was thus working for 
England’s ends — and his own — by urging his country- 
woman to retain her hold on a man he regarded as “a 
gilded savage,” a number of American representative 
merchants and planters were holding what they call 
a “caucus ”, in a guarded room of the Hawaiian Hotel. 

Among these Americans were two of the Queen’s 
cabinet, men who had large interests on the islands, 
but who had won the enmity of Her Majesty by their 
republican manners and their opposition to what they 
very properly regarded as her arbitrary and unconsti- 
tutional methods. 

One of these gentlemen had just announced that the 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


23 


Queen, in defiance of established law, was about to 
promulgate a new constitution, which, if carried into 
effect, would make American property, which repre- 
sented eighty per cent, of all the wealth in Hawaii, 
practically valueless and render the islands unsafe as 
the abode of any but a native. 

“If we do not interfere to stop this,” said one of the 
ministers, “the English will; and once England gets her 
hands on Hawaii she will not be in a hurry to relin- 
quish her grasp. ” , 

Colonel Ellis, a rich planter from the island of Hawaii, 
and a man whose bearing and manners showed that his 
military title was not assumed, rose and said in a low- 
voiced, deliberate way, that was more effective than a 
vociferous address : • 

“The natives of Hawaii are as weary of their Queen 
as ourselves. Yet, they are a proud people and will 
never be content to have a white man at the head of 
their affairs, though white men direct them now. I 
think I see a way to getting rid of the Queen and at the 
same time placing, as an elected president, a man in the 
chair who is the rightful heir to the throne, and withal 
a native, and a young man of ability. When he was a 
lad, after the manner of these people, particularly the 
families of chiefs, he was espoused to Leila, daughter of 
the Chief Keona of Hawaii. If we could bring this mar- 
riage about at once, and Kohala, whose heart is wrapped 
up in the interests of his people, will agree to it, I am 
sure we can satisfy the natives and have a man in 
power who, while doing injustice to none, will co- 
operate with us for the good of all. Indeed, he told me, 
soon after his return, that under proper conditions he 
would favor annexatio*\ to the States, or such a pro- 


24 


KOHALA OP HAWATi. 


tectorate as would take these islands iorever ou^ of 
the reach of these avaricious European nations, now so 
eager to possess them.” 

“Colonel Ellis,” said Mr. George King, a gentleman 
interested in the lumber trade between Honolulu and 
Puget's Sound, “have you been watching this young 
Kohala of late?” , 

“I have not,” was the reply; “but I am quite sure he 
is doing nothing that is not right.” 

“I suppose,” laughed Mr. King, “that none of us would 
call anything so natural as falling ir love, wrong?” 

The companj^ laughed, and, to a man, said : “Of course 
not.” 

“But with whom has Kohala fallen in love?” asked 
Colonel Ellis. 

“I am told on good authority that he is one of the 
most devoted admirers of this Englishwoman, Mrs. 
Holmes,” said Mr. King. 

“Mrs. Holmes!” repeated Colonel Ellis. 

“Then you have not heard of her? That proves that 
you have been away from Honolulu. She is a yoimg 
widow, neither rich, talented nor particularly prepos- 
sessing, if you come to analyze lier, who has half the 
men in love with her, and the other half, with about all 
the women, denouncing her. Among the women, how- 
ever, is not Her Majesty, for M .s. Holmes, with her 
peculiarly insinuating ways, has made herself a fre- 
quent, and so a welcome, visitor at the palace. Why, 
last night, I heard Her Majesty joking tip nttle widow 
about Koliala, and the little widow purred in her kit- 
tenish w^ay, and looked pleased.” 

“T see it!” said Colonel Ellis, with unusual energy. 
“The Queen wants Kohala to marry a white woman. 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


25 


That act would kill him with the natives and she 
knows it. But, surely, the young man is not infatu- 
ated with this unknown person?" 

“But he is,” persisted Mr. King and others. 

“Then,” said the colonel, “we must act to prevent 
such an alliance. Either Kohala must give up this 
woman, or, better still, she must be forced to leave 
Honolulu.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE QUEEN’S PROPOSITION. 

Outside the door of the room in the Hawaiian Hotel, 
where the Americans were assembled, there was sta- 
tioned a guard to prevent intrusion, and every man who 
passed this guard did so by virtue of a pass-word. 

During the meeting, fully twenty men were admitted 
in this way, mostly Americans, but there were not a 
few German and French merchants among the com- 
pany, who frankly confessed that they would prefer 
that Hawaii should belong to their own countries, but 
who, as this was not feasible, were determined that 
England should not add these beautiful islands to her 
vast Polynesian possessions. 

These foreigners, if such they can be called, strongly 
advocated forcing the Queen from the throne, and* then 
asking Captain Wiltze, of the United States warship 
Boston, for American protection, until such times as 
the leading citizens should decide on a permanent form 
of government. 

In anticipation of just such a movement. Colonel 


26 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Ellis had drawn up, before coming to the meeting, a 
scheme of organization tha-t would insure protection 
until a convention representative of all interests should 
decide on annexation to the United States, or to form 
an independent republic under the protection of that 
country. 

“Before proceeding further, gentlemen,” said Colonel 
Ellis, as he rose with his written scheme in his hand, 
“I propose, for present secrecy and future success, that 
we, who are here assembled, subscribe to a pledge in 
which we shall bind ourselves to keep our own council, 
and to work without ceasing until our purpose is ac- 
complished. Does this meet with your approval?” 

“Ay ! Ay ! Ay !” burst from every man in the room. 

“Then let every man rise, lift his right hand, give his 
own name, then repeat after me.” 

Every man rose and raised his right hand, and the 
expression on the strong, bearded faces showed that they 
did not regard this act as a theatrical ceremony. 

“I, Norman Ellis.” 

Every man solemnly repeated his own name. 

“Of my own free will and accord.” 

“Of my own free will and accord.” 

“And in the presence of Almighty God and these wit- 
nesses, do solemnly swear that I will never divulge, to 
one not authorized to receive the same, the names, acts 
or purposes of this, the Patriotic Council of Hawaii, 
And, believing that our liberties, if not our ’property and 
lives, are threatened by the arbitrary, unconstitutional 
and barbarous conduct of the Queen, I hereby solemnly 
pledge myself to use all my best efforts to depose her, 
by mild means if possible, but by force if need be. And 
I further promise anrl swear that I will freely and 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


27 


promptly obey the orders of the Council, without re- 
gard to my own loss of money or time, and that I will 
do all in my power to protect the rights of the weakest 
and humblest citizen of Hawaii as well as if they were 
my own. To all this I pledge my honor as a man 
and a citizen. So help me God, and enable me to do 
unto others as I would that they sliould do unto me !” 

A solemn silence followed the conclusion of this oath. 
Each felt that while it had not strengthened his personal 
purpose it united him more closely to men whose inter- 
ests were common with his own. 

Although the law might call these men “conspirators,” 
yet there was nothing of the conspirator in their looks or 
purposes, nor could even the most prejudiced doubt the 
sincerity of their intentions. . 

Colonel Ellis, who was a natural born leader, set the 
example he would have the others follow by grasping 
tlie hand of the man nearest to him ; and so hands were 
grasped, till the thirty-five men present formed a living 
chain about the long table in the center of the room. 

After this there was less restraint, and men who had 
scarcely dared to whisper their hopes or fears became 
free and outspoken in giving them expression. 

Among the Americans present was a handsome young 
man, Arthur Loring, a graduate of West Point, who had 
recently resigned from the army in order to take charge 
of a large sugar plantation owned in Hawaii by his 
father, a Boston merchant. 

So far. Captain Loring, who, like most trained soldiers, 
was not a fluent talker, remained silent. Colonel Ellis 
had just been elected chairman of the Council, an act 
that made him President of the Provisional Govern- 
ment, then and there established, when Captain Loring 


28 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


rose to his feet, and, with more embarrassment of man- 
ner than he would have shown if ordered to charge a 
battery, he saluted the chair, and said : 

“While I am sure that nothing that has transpired in 
this Council, or that may transpire at its subsequent con- 
sultations, will ever be made public by one of us till the 
occasion for secrecy is past, yet we should not lose sight 
of the fact that the spies of the Queen and her adherents 
swarm in Honolulu, and where they do not know things 
they will surmise the worst. While I cannot speak with 
absolute certainty, yet I feel as sure as a man can in my 
position that .it is at this moment known at the palace 
that we are here, and our purpose will be understood. 
Alone, the Queen has neither the force nor the ability to 
assert herself as she is ambitious to do; but she is not 
lacking in advisers who make up for her deficiencies. 
Be assured that the instant she is certain that we will 
resist this new and illegal Constitution she will not 
hesitate to enforce it by every means at her disposal. 
Her army is barely fifty strong; but there are five 
thousand native men who stand ready to do her bid- 
ding to the death, and in the arsenal in this city there 
are arms for a large force of troops. If the adherents 
of the Queen get possession of the arsenal— and they 
may be in that position before another sun rises— every 
man opposed to her will be arrested or be forced to 
flight, or to seek the protection of the warships in the 
harbor. Therefore, my friends, as a matter of prudence 
we should organize a military force at once, seize the 
arsenal and disarm all the Queen’s troops'. If in this 
work I can be of any service, as a private in the ranks 
or an officer, command me to the death.” 

This sensible and spirited speech was received with 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


29 


applause. It suggested more than a theory. In it the 
Council saw a tangible something that could be carried 
into effect at once ; and, while it implied force, which 
ev’en the boldest was anxious to avoid, the most timid 
realized that it was only by a show of force that the 
Queen could be intimidated and bloodshed averted. 

With the promptness of earnest men who had a great 
deal to do and a short time to do it in, the skeleton of a 
military organization was at once formed, the command 
of the Provisional regiment being given by acclamation 
to Captain Loring, who, from that minute on, was ad- 
dressed as “colonel,” and so we shall give him his Ha- 
waiian rank. 

Colonel Loring was quite right when he declared that 
this meeting at the hotel was known at the palace, with 
the names of all who attended. 

Queen Liliuokalani, like most of the sovereigns in the 
world to-day, would not be considered above the mass 
in intellect, if she was of the mass; but she had the 
cunning that is a good substitute for mental ability, and 
then the adulation paid her because of her position gave 
her an exalted idea of her own abilities, and led her to 
transcend her prerogatives in the direction of affairs. 

With good educational advantages, the Queen is not 
even fairly well educated. Brought up amid Christian 
influences and surroundings, she has^ chosen to ignore 
religion by holding aloof from it, and so giving her 
enemies a basis for the rumor tliat she has gone back to 
the bloody orgies and festishes of her forefathers. But 
be that as it may, certain it is that she had come to 
regard the beautiful islands of Hawaii as her own ex- 
clusive property, on which foreigners could only live 


30 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


by her sufferance ; and this she had made up her mind 
not to continue. 

If the Queen, like Kohala, had been moved to effort 
by the high resolve of elevating her people . instead of 
aggrandizing herself, she might have ranked as a wise 
ruler, and even the most ardent advocate of a republic 
would never have dreamed of revolution while she 
reigned. But she began in error, and tried to justify 
her blunders by additional folly. 

Even while Colonel Loring was talking at the Hawaiian 
Hotel and an. army was being formed to depose her the 
Queen, with a few white men and many native adherents , 
about her, was discussing, in her own private apartments, 
the purpose of the white men’s meeting. 

From time to time a native messenger came into the 
Queen’s presence, bearing the name of the last arrival 
at the room of the Council in the Hawaiian Hotel. 

One of the Queen’s ministers was an American named 
Eli Porter, or, rather, he had been an American, but now 
he was a citizen of Hawaii. He was a man of wealth, 
and he was further bound to the islands and Her Maj- 
esty by his marriage with her cousin, a full-blooded 
native. To this man the Queen now looked for advice. 
News of the breaking up of the Council had just come 
in, and Her Majesty turned to Mr. Porter, in whose 
abilities and fidelity she had all faith, to surmise what 
had been done. 

“I can tell,” said Mr. Porter, with an assurance that 
carried conviction, “exactly what these men have done.” 

“Then ease my doubts by telling me without question- 
ing,” said the Queen, her dark face twitching with ex- 
citement. 

“They are planning depose Your Majesty ; but to do 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


31 


that with success, they must either organize an army at 
once or declare their fears and ask for the protection of 
the American warships now here. Your Majesty has 
only sixty armed soldiers, the palace guards, and these 
can soon be overpowered ; but, by acting promptly, we 
can soon have Honolulu swarming with your defenders. ” 

Seeing that her minister paused for her comment on 
this, the Queen asked : 

“How can this be done?” 

“There are arms for five thousand men in Your Maj- 
esty’s arsenal, and there are five thousand Hawaiians 
ready to seize them, if you give the order.” 

“I do give the order!” she said, impetuously. 

“Then I shall have the guards seize the arsenal at 
once,” and, in his eagerness. Porter rose to his feet as 
if he were about to carry out this purpose immediately ; 
but he stopped as if struck by another thought, and be- 
gan stroking his chin. 

“What detains you?” asked the Queen, impatiently. 

“Another matter of equal importance. Your Majesty,” 
said Porter. 

“What is it?’’ 

“Kohala.” 

“What of him?” 

“The revolutionists, as Your Majesty knows, are im- 
posing on many of your people by declaring that this 
young man, as a direct descendant of King Kamehameha, 
is the rightful heir to the throne, and Kohala helps the 
imposition by a strong belief in his own claims.” 

“He is a fool !” she said, angrily. 

“No doubt; but he can become a very dangerous one 
to our cause. He is, as Your Majesty knows, an out- 
spoken republican, yet he could b» made to compromise 


32 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


with his convictions by permitting himself to be made 
president for. life.” 

“What folly !” said Her Majesty, with a shrug of her 
broad shoulders. 

“Not such folly, if their plans carry.” 

“What plans?” 

“Why, the principal plan is that Kohala shall at once 
marry Leila, daughter of Keona of Hawaii. The two, 
as Your Majesty may remember, were betrothed when 
they were children, and, although Kohala has seen much 
of the world since then, and so may have no love for the 
daughter of the chief, yet his love for the people of these 
islands is so strong that it is firmly believed he can be 
made to do anything that promises a realization of his 
rather romantic dreams. But in Kohala himself I see 
no danger.” 

“Where, then, does it lie?” 

“In his marriage with Leila. Not even Your Majesty 
has more influence over the people of Hawaii than Keona. 
He, as you well know, has never been your friend. If 
his daughter becomes the wife of Kohala he will have 
a double reason for opposing ’you — his personal hate and 
his family pride. Your Majesty’s husband was a white 
man, and, as you know, the people never liked it. With 
the daughter of a chief for his wife, Kohala can appeal 
to the pride of the natives, and they will flock to his 
support. And, let me add, the Americans, nearly all of 
whom are Your Majesty’s enemies, strongly favor this 
marriage.” 

“But, Mr. Porter,” said the Queen, with a compression 
of the very full lips, “how would you stop it?” 

“There are two ways of doing it,” replied Porter. 

“V/hat are they?” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


33 


Speaking very slowly, and looking down at a paper 
held in his hand as if he saw the words there, Porter 
said : 

“Sovereigns with devoted subjects have never had 
much trouble in getting rid of a rival— of the rival he 
met at the start.” 

“I do not quite understand; but let that go. What is 
the second way of making this young man harmless?” 
and the Queen half closed her eyes and looked up at the 
ceiling. 

“I would marry him to a white woman at once.” 

“But what good w-ould that do?” 

“It would array Keona and all the natives against 
him.” 

“You think so?” 

“I am sure of it.” 

“But would they come to my side?” 

“They might. Again, by marrying such a woman, he 
would alienate the Americans. ’ ’ 

“Ah!” exclaimed the Queen, and she brought her fat 
palms together with a smack, “that is what we want. 
We must alienate the Americans from him ; w^ould that 
w^e could banish them from Hawaii at the same time. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER V. 

MRS. HOLMES IN A QUANDARY. 

Marguerite Holmes was much talked about in Hono- 
lulu. She w'as a woman wdio would attract attention 
wherever she went, yet it could not be said with truth 


34 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


that she courted notoriety; it came to her. She im- 
pressed one at first as being shrinking, if not reserved, 
still she soon became a center of attraction, particularly 
to elderly men, over whom she seemed to exercise a 
peculiar fascination. 

Young men did not take kindly to her, though when 
she chose to exercise her remarkable powers she could, 
as we have seen in the case of Kohala and Captain 
Featherstone, bring them to her feet. 

When at home Mrs. Holmes occupied her time in writ- 
ing or in arranging her own dresses ; the latter never 
followed the lines of fashion, but were cut and draped 
with an eye to her own figure and complexion ; and the 
consequence was that, with the simplest materials, she 
always managed to look the best and the most tastefully 
dressed woman in any gathering where she was a guest. 

When not a nimated in conversation Mrs. Holmes’s 
face seemed pinched and wan, and the long-lashed eyes 
had in them a sorrowing, introverted expression that 
made her look older than the years she claimed. 

She was bending over her sewing to-night in a little 
bow- windowed apartment that was half boudoir, half 
sitting-room, when the angular and taciturn Clem 
entered, and said: 

‘‘Captain Featherstone, mem.” 

‘ Show him in, Clem,” said Mrs. Holmes. 

On the instant the expression of age and heart-torture 
vanished, and the childlike light of innocence and ex- 
pectancy came into the remarkable eyes. 

“I hardly expected you to-night, captain,” she said, 
as, without rising, she extended to him her left hand. 
The right still held the needle and the sewing was on her 
lap. ' ■ 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


35 


“Nor would I have disturbed you again, Flossy, if 
it were not that I am in trouble,” said Featherstone. 

“In trouble?” she echoed. 

“Yes.” 

‘'But I hope not in danger?” 

“Every suspected man and woman in Honolulu to- 
night is in danger ; but men who play for large stakes 
Jiiiist take some risks.” Then, as if putting himself 
aside, he asked : “When have you seen Kohala?” 

“To-day.” • , 

“He came here?” 

“He did.” 

“And how did he seem?” 

“Much worried. He told me that he must leave to- 
morrow for Flilo. ” 

“For Hilo?” 

“Yes. There is to be a meeting of all the native oppo- 
nents of the Queen in a great cave near the lake of fire, 
where, for centuries, the chiefs of Hawaii have assembled 
whenever there was danger. The message has come to 
liim through Keona, a powerful chief on that island. He 
says that, for the sake of the people whom he so loves, 
he dare not disobey. Ah ! I fear there is going to be 
trouble — bloodshed!” cried Marguerite, and she inter- 
locked her thin fingers above her sewing and looked 
imploringly at the captain, as if asking him to allay her 
fears. 

“Do you fear for yourself?” asked Featherstone. 

“No; I am not a coward,” she said, with spirit. 

“Then you fear for him?” 

“Why should I not fear for him ? Can any woman with 
a heart remain indifferent to the man who pays her the 


36 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


greatest compliment it is possible for man to pay? I 
would do much to help him and to save him.” 

“Pardon me, Flossy. You are quite right. I am apt 
to forget my true mission here in my love for you. But, 
tell me, does he still persist on an immediate mar- 
riage?” 

“Redoes.” • 

“And your answer?” 

“I have obeyed your instructions. I will not promise 
to be his wife till he becoipes the king of Hawaii and 
makes England an ally. This, I told him, will prove 
that his love for me, while a private citizen, has not 
been changed by his becoming a king.” 

“Ah! Flossy, you are a natural born diplomat,” said 
Featherstone, admiringly. He was about to continue, 
when Clem rapped at the door — something she never did 
when her mistress was alone — and entered before she 
heard a response. 

“A lady, mem,” said Clem, and she handed Mrs. 
Holmes a card, then withdrew to the door, which she 
held ajar. 

“Mercy!” exclaimed Marguerite, and the card 
trembled in her hand. “It is the Queen! She must 
not see you here ! ’ ’ 

“But I cannot get out without seeing her!” cried 
Featherstone, and he rose to his feet and looked about 
him. 

“Quick! there is a closet!” Mrs. Holmes pointed to 
a door behind her, and on the instant Featherstone 
vanished. 

She rose, put away her sewing, glanced at her face in 
the mirror, adjusted the violet blossoms at her throat 
and went out to meet her visitor. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


37 


Although heavily veiled, no one familiar with the 
figure of the Queen could be mistaken as to her identity. 
She had left her carriage in a street near by and come 
to this cottage alone and on foot. 

Bending down and kissing the little Englishwoman 
on the cheek, the Queen whispered : 

“My dear, take me where we can talk without being 
disturbed. Here, your boudoir will suit,'’ and before 
Mrs. Holmes, who was about to suggest the bedroom, 
could respond Her Majesty led the way, for this was 
not her first visit. 

“Are you sure we can talk here without being ob- 
served?” asked the Queen, as she dropped into a large 
wicker chair and wiped her face. 

“Ye — yes; we can talk here in safety,” replied Mrs. 
Holmes, with the slightest tremor in her low, sweet 
voice. 

“I am in trouble — in sore trouble,” began Her Maj- 
esty. “I am surrounded by enemies, men to whom I 
and my ancestors have given a home and a welcome, 
and scarce knowing where to turn for a friend whom 
I can trust, I have come to you, for you, at least, are 
true, and you, more than any one in Honolulu, can help 
me.” 

“I am Your Majesty’s to command,” said Marguerite, 
with a self-deprecating shake of the head; “but I am 
so weak and helpless that I cannot see how I can be 
of service to any one, much less to the good Queen 
of Hawaii.” 

“You will be entirely frank with me?” 

“Surely, Your Majesty.” 

“Do you love Kohala?” and the Queen straightened 
up and fastened her big black eyes on the little widow. ^ 


38 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“I am not indifferent to Koliala,” replied Marguerite, 
and she looked down on her thin interlocked fingers, as 
was her habit when particular!}' serious. ’ “But,” she 
continued, “I cannot forget that I am only recently a 
widow, and that I am not as yet physically strong, ’ 

“But Kohala is rich.” 

“Tliat would be no inducement to me.” 

“And he is handsome.” 

“I concede that. ” 

“And well educated, though I think you white people 
give too much importance to mere learning. But there 
is one thing a woman values more than wealth, beauty 
or education.” 

"Yvliat is that, Your Majesty?” 

“Love !* The young man loves you.” 

“I am afraid he does.” 

“And by that chain of love you can lead him where 
you will. Are you ready to do it to help me?” 

“Your Majesty, my mind is dull to-nigiit and my 
heart is heavy; I do not understand,” said Marguerite, 
appealingly. 

“Then I shall be plainer.” The Queen dre^wher chair 
nearer, and, sinking her voice to a whisper that seemed 
masculine in its hoarseness, she continued: “If you 
marry Kohala at once it can be kept secret till such time 
as you choose to disclose it. I will see to it that he leaves 
immediately after the ceremony, which can take place 
to-morrow morning at the palace, and there you can 
remain under my protection— the protection of a loving 
mother— so long as you are content with such a friend 
and such a home. Wait, do not stop me. I am not rich, 
but I command wealth and power. Do as I ask you, and 
there will be nothing in my gift to grant for which you 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


39 


will need to ask a second time. Now, what say yon, my 
precious friend?” 

It is so — so sudden,” said Mrs. Holmes, her eyes still 
on the interlocked fingers. 

“But I cannot wait. I must have your answer to- 
night; at once !” and the Queen rose and towered above 
the little widow like a gigantic silhouette. 

“But I must have the night to consider,” said Margue- 
rite, with an upward glance at the full, swarthy face of 
the Queen. 

“This night?” 

“Yes, this night.” 

“And your answer will be ready in the morning?” 

“It will.” 

“And you will fetch it to the palace?” 

“If Your Majesty desires it.” 

“I do desire it. I shall see you not later than nine 
o’clock?” 

“If Your Majesty so orders.” 

“No. I so request. I never order those whom I love.” 

Marguerite, following her guest’s example, rose, and, 
on the instant, the big, strong arms were about her little 
neck, and the Queen, after kissing her on both cheeks, 
withdrew. 

“Well!” exclaimed Featherstone, as he emerged from 
the closet, “I am glad she has gone, and I am equally 
glad that I had an opportunity to hear her proposition.” 

“And I am sorry that you have heard it. I do not like 
the idea of playing traitor,” said Marguerite, the pinched, 
weary expression again coming into the childish, ir- 
resolute face. 

“And what are you going to do?” 


40 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


She raised her hands to her face, let them fall help- 
lessly, and half sobbed : 

“I do not know. I have been following your instruc- 
tions. You are a man, and strong; I am a woman, and 
weak. What do you advise?” 

“You cannot permit an actual marriage — for my sake. ” 

“And yet you are willing that I should pretend'to an 
illegal marriage so that you can hold this man to your 
purpose and eventually marry me yourself ; is not that 
it?” 

“That is exactly it. It is in our power, through Kohala 
and his followers, to make Hawaii an English colony, the 
property of the British crown. If we win — and I am sure 
we can — it means a fortune for you and me. One hun- 
dred thousand i)Ounds will be the reward of our success. 
With such a fortune and with such a wife, I shall be the 
happiest man in the world.” 

“But what must I do?” she asked. 

“I have already told you. You must get him to issue 
a proclamation, calling on the Hawaiians to sustain him 
as their legal king, and to depose the Queen as a pre- 
tender. Such an act on his part will give England her 
opportunity ; we shall then have a majority of the natives 
behind us, and the rest will be easy. Indeed, after the 
deposition of the Queen and the crowning of Kohala, it 
would be better for my purpose if the gilded young 
savage were found dead in his bed some fine morning 
—an event not at all impossible in such a community 
as this. The adherents of the Queen could be hired for 
such work, or, if not, it would be an easy matter to 
place the taking oflf of the young man at their doors.” 

“Don’t, don’t talk in that way,” she said, with a shud- 
der. “The thought of blood makes me faint.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


41 


“Then I shall not refer to it again. You look weary, 
and need rest. Go to bed, and in the morning call on 
Her Majesty. Agree to anything and everything but 
the actual performance of the marriage ceremony with 
Kohala. I can see, if you do not, exactly why the Queen 
is so eager to have you Kohala’s wife. Now, good-night 
and pleasant dreams, little girl.” 

Featherstone drew her to his side, brought her passive 
head to his broad breast and kissed her. But even after 
he withdrew she stood for some minutes as if in a trance, 
and the lines about her eyes and mouth were as those of 
an old woman. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE INFERNO OF HAWAII. 

In the southeast corner of the great island of Hawaii, 
after which the whole group of islands is named, there 
is the most wonderful if not the most famous volcano 
in the world — Kilauea — pronounced Kil-awe-ee-ah. It 
is a vast lake of fire far up among the clouds, and on its 
scorching shores the molten waves break at times like 
the phosphorescent rollers over the coral reefs that en- 
circle the island. 

The sun had dropped behind great banks of flaming 
clouds, that looked as if they had caught in their huge 
folds the reflection of the mighty crater, when bands of 
natives could be seen coming up from Hilo and the many 
emerald valleys about to the blistering sconia banks that 
surrounded the surging* ^ake of fire. • ' 


42 


KOHALA OF HAWAI.. 


Although the Hawaiians ordinarily dress like the 
Americans of their class, on this occasion each man 
and woman wore the jiicturesque native costume. The 
men carried spears tipped with the serrated teeth of the 
shark, and their helmets were decorated with the bright 
plumage of paroquettes. They wore sandals with shark- 
hide soles, and their oval shields, ornamented with iri- 
descent shells, were of the same tough material. 

As is their custom when they meet to practice the 
ancient rites, which all the pleadings of the missionaries 
have not induced them wholly to relinquish, the women 
wore robes of colored grass, of the shape and woven in 
the patterns of the Scottish kilt. The raven liair, hang- 
ing loose down their shoulders, looked blacker in con- 
trast with the crimson blossoms with which it was 
intertwined, while great wreaths of wildflowers took the 
place of jackets about the bronzed necks and shoulders. 

As the young women advanced, they sang, as if unmind- 
ful of the steep ascent, and formed a body-guard about 
one who seemed to be the youngest and most beautiful, 
as she surely was the most honored, of the troop. This 
was Leila, daughter of Keona, the hereditary chief of 
the great island of Hawaii. Leila looked beautiful when 
seen in evening-dress at the last ball given by the Queen 
in Honolulu ; but in her native attire she appeared far 
more radiant and captivating, nor was this costume a 
greater strain on her innate modesty. 

The inner rim of the great crater is honeycombed with 
volcanic caves. Some of these, particularly near the sea 
of fire, are of recent origin, and are continually changing 
their forms, or are being destroyed and replaced by 
others equally weird and fantastic. Near the outer rim 
of the crater, at certain points, there are igneous caverns 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


43 


of great extent that have not changed materially since 
the days of which tradition tells, when the whole island 
M^as for a time one vast cone of fire, whose heaven-reach- 
ing torch dimmed the splendor of the cloudless sun at 
high noon. 

Time out of mind one of these ancient caverns, that 
might have served as a chamber for Vulcan, has been 
used as a council chamber by the chiefs of Hawaii. Here 
the great Kamehameha announced his purpose to his 
warriors before he began the campaign that resulted 
in subduing all the islands to his sway. Here the chiefs 
of Hawaii had been married since long before the com- 
ing of Captain Cook, and here the Chief Keona had 
met his followers in council when the increasing aggres- 
sions of the white men or the imbecility and vices of 
their own rulers threatened the liberties of the people. 

Keona of Hawaii was a man in the prime of life, tall 
and finely formed, as are ever the high-class natives, and 
with a bearing and physiognomy that denoted unusual 
strength and activity and the heaven-given power to 
command. 

Keona, seated on a lava block, that looked like a 
Titan’s throne by the light of the many shell lamps that 
illuminated the cave, was dressed in the barbaric but 
becoming feather robes of gold-bronze, such as his war- 
like ancestors ever wore in council. About him were 
fivescore or more men, all carrying spears and shields, 
and all showing by the serious expression on their 
swarthy faces that business of unusual importance was 
to be transacted to-night. 

The chief and his followers were talking in low, earn- 
est tones when, suddenly, like music from the sky, that 
was re-echoed with thrilling effect in the depths of the 


44 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


cavern, the song of the Hawaiian maidens could be 
heard, and then the men became silent — 

“Fringing with crimson cre^t 
Those watch-towers of the west. 

Which lift their cold, gray battlements on high. 

The monarch of the day 
Veils his last lingering ray. 

And sinks to rest o’er far-off WaianjB. 

“ No sound is on the shore 
Save reef-bound breakers’ roar. 

Or distant boatsman’s song, or seabirci’s cry; 

And hushed the inland bay 
In stillness, far away 
Like phantoms rise the hills of Waianse. 

“ Ghosts of each act and thought 
Which the dead day has wrought. 

The misty twilight shadows silent fly 
To burial, ’neath the pall 
Of ‘past’ beyond recall. 

Which falls with night o’er silent Waianas.’’ 

With Leila in their midst, the girls advanced througli 
the open ranks, and when within twenty feet of him 
Keona descended and led his daughter to a seat by his 
side. This appeared to be a signal, for at once the wo- 
men began a song that had to it a more martial ring, 
and to its stirring measure the warriors kept perfect 
time by beating their spears against their resonant 
shields. 

The last notes of this song were still echoing down the 
cavern when a series of shrill cries, that might well 
have alarmed people not expecting them, came from 
the profound and stygian depths beyond. 

Neither the chief nor those about him seemed startled, 
nor turned in the direction of the sound as it came nearer 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


45 


and swelled out in shriller and more piercing note^. At 
length, a band of three old men and three old women, 
dressed in robes of rattling reeds, and with huge gray 
wigs of dried seaweeds on their heads, appeared before 
the chief and his daughter, and prostrated themselves 
at his feet, and so I’emained till he told them to rise. 

These were the Kahinas, or sorcerers of the island, 
people with prophetic power's who' could pierce the veil 
of the future and tell all that was to be, though their 
prophecies, like those of the oracles of an older and 
more cultured' people, were invariably enigmatical, and 
were'capable of the most opposite interpretations. 

One of these Kahinas was a man who looked to be 
older, as he^certainly was more hideous, than any of his 
companions. He stood closer to the chief than the 
others, as became the rank of the oldest priest on all 
the islands. Addressing him, Keona asked : 

“Can Helna tell us why tarries our king?” 

“We have no king, alas!” replied the old man, and 
he emphasized the exclamation by raising his long 
wand and letting the end fall to the rocky floor with 
a metallic ring, an example followed, like a chorus, by 
the other Kahinas. 

“But Hawaii shall soon have a king !” said Keona. 

“We shall soon have a king!” shouted the warriors, 
and the girls threw back their long black tresses, and 
chanted : 

“We shall soon have a king !” 

“Where is Kohala?” asked the chief. 

“He is here,” said Helna. 

. The old sorcerer raised to his lips a shell bugle, which 
he carried fastened to his girdle, and blew a long, shrill 
blast, that went, echoing down through the cave as if a 


46 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


thousand mystic buglers were prolonging the notes, with 
an ever-decreasing force, in the far-off depths. 

A brief silence, then the quick fall of hurrying feet 
could be heard coming up as if from lower depths. 
Nearer and nearer came the tramping, then a song of 
triumph burst from the lips of unseen men. A flash 
of flambeaux banished the stygian blackness behind. 
Then men came to view-, shaking their torches till 
the place seemed filled with a rain of fire. These 
people were dressed as warriors, and in their midst, 
with a corona of crimson feathers on his head and a 
yellow mantle that flashed like gold over his shoulders, 
was Kohala, the sole descendant of the great King 
Kamehameha, who, in this very chamber, had begun 
his career of triumph. 

■Wlien Leila saw the young man the color deepened 
on her olive cheeks, and she would have risen as lier 
father had done had he not bent over her and vtdiis- 
pered : 

“She who is to be the Queen of Hawaii need not rise 
jn any presence.” 

At sight of the youth whom they regarded as their 
rightful king the men broke into a cheer, or, rather, 
a long, shrill shout, that resembled the cries of startled 
eagles. 

Keona descended from the seat, and, catching Kohala 
to his breast, he kissed him on both cheeks, and, still 
holding him in his strong embrace, he turned his face 
to the people and cried out : 

“I told you that one day I should show you your kiiur. 
Behold ! Kohala, from wandering througli all lands, lias 
come back to Hawaii, the home of his heart;* and he vv'iii 
leave us never again.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


47 


Again the cheering broke out, the spears were beaten 
against the shields and the torch-bearers shook their 
brands till all seemed deluged in a golden rain. 

“I am not the king of Hawaii, but I am better: I am 
a Hawaiian, who loves his home and his people, and 
who is ready, if need be, to lay down his life for both,” 
said Kohala, in a voice that all could hear, while the 
warmth of his reception and the barbaric surroundings 
stirred in his heart the latent spirit of his ancestors, and 
brought the blood in darker waves to his cheeks and 
kindled a heroic light in the great black eyes. 

The young man bowed to Leila, whom he now saw for 
the first time since his entrance, and the look of sudden 
and transitory pain that fiitted over his handsome face 
may have passed unnoticed by others, but it did not es- 
cape the keen gaze of the old sorcerer, Helna. 

Yielding to the many arms that fairly lifted him up, 
Kohala stood before Leila, kissed her hand with the 
gallantry of a medieval knight, and then, in obedience 
to the requesf— it seemed like a command — of Keona, 
he sat down beside the beautifuLgirl. 

“When Kohala weds Leila, the daughter of Keona of 
Hawaii, then shall he be crowned and placed on the 
throne now disgraced by her who calls herself ‘Queen’ at 
Honolulu!” called out Helna, who felt that he might 
venture on that prophecy with perfect safety. 

And to the people who heard him, and who all believed 
the same thing before he had spoken, Helna was more 
than ever the most wonderful Kahina Hawaii had ever 
seen. 

‘‘We have met to-night,” said Keona, addressing him- 
self to Kohala and to his eager-faced followers, ‘‘not 
to see the wedding of a prince nor the crowning of a 


48 ' KOHALA OF HAWAII. 

king — though they will speedily follow to-night’s work 
— but to welcome him who is to be our ruler, and to see 
him, as we now do, seated beside her to wliom he was 
betrothed when a boy and while yet his father lived. 
I have heard wild stories about Kohala’s admiration for 
Avomen whose skins are whiter than is Leila’s of Hawaii ; 
but it troubles me not, for I knew that the son of such a 
father could never break his father’s word. To-night Ave 
would learn the plans of Kohala, assuring him that with 
our lives we stand ready to carry them out.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

LOVE OR PATRIOTISM — WHICH? 

The men and the maidens and the weird Kahinas 
gathered about the volcanic throne on which Kohala 
and Leila were seated thought, nor took pains to hide 
tlieir thoughts, that they had never seen two such beau- 
tiful young people before. 

The bronzed cheeks of Keona Avere agloAv, and the 
fire of pride and triumph burned in his keen black eyes, 
for the act on which all his hopes centered since the 
birth of his daughter Avas soon to be consummated. Nor 
was it paternal ambition alone that moved him. At 
lieart, he was a patriot. Too circumscribed in his en- 
vironment to look upon all men as his brothers, all the 
love of his strong nature was concentrated on his OAvn 
people; and, to make them free and independent, he 
Avould have seen Avith delight the last Avhite man dead 
or banished from Hawaii. 

“Friends and a feast await us by the shore!” called 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


49 


out the old priest, Heliia. “Let our king make his 
pledge before all the chiefs ere we leave this the sacred 
temple of Hawaii.” 

At a signal from the old Kahina, Kohala rose, and 
Leila, in obedience to her father’s gesture, did the same, 

“Kohala, son of the conqueror,” said Helna, in a low, 
solemn voice, while Keona and all the people crossed 
their hands on their breasts and bowed their heads, “are 
you ready to keep the vows your father made to all our 
people in your behalf?” 

The young man hesitated, and swallowed an invisible 
lump. He cast a quick, nervous glance at the beautiful 
girl by his side, then said, with an effort and in a voice 
that seemed strange to himself : 

“I am.” 

“Then you have not been changed by living in the 
land of the whites? ’’said Helna. 

“My love for Hawaii and for the people of my race 
has grown stronger,” said Kohala, wdth more confidence. 
“Yet am I changed from a simple-minded boy to a man 
who has learned the secret of the white man’s power, 
and who is ready to use that knowledge for the good of 
his own people.” 

A murmur of approval went up from the groups about 
the great volcanic rock on wdiich Kohala stood, and the 
men raised their faces. 

“Our people look to you to bring them light in this 
the day of their great doubt and darkness; are you 
ready?” 

“I am.” 

“And you will marry Leila, the pearl of Hawaii, and 
wrest from the impostor the throne of your fathers?” 
said Helna. 


50 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


It was well for Kohala that this was a double question. 
His was not a nature to be indifferent to the rare advan- 
tages of the beautiful girl by his side. He knew and 
felt that in every physical grace she was not only the 
peer, but vastly the superior of the white woman who 
had gained such an irresistible mastery over his heart ; 
yet the full knowledge of this fact intensified rather than 
weakened his love for Marguerite Holmes. 

Hawaii, with the woman of his heart, would be 
heaven; without her, any and every condition would 
be torture. He realized his own helplessness. He felt 
that his love was a chain bearing him down and weak- 
ening his manhood at the very time when he needed 
more strength ; yet he would not have forgotten his idol 
if he could, nor have been free from her magic spell if 
in his power. 

Keeping in mind the last of the old Kahina’s ques- 
tions, Kohala replied : 

“I believe in rulers chosen by the people who are to 
be ruled ; but my life among the whites has given me 
a contempt for kings who claim that the gods have 
chosen them for such a mission. The Queen of Hawaii 
is not the choice of our people. She regards the throne * 
as her private property, so that if she were, as I am, the 
descendant of the great King Kamehameha, still should 
I oppose her, still should I demand that she do right by 
yielding what she was wrong in accepting. So sure am 
I that the people should elect their own rulers that I 
will not insist on my claims that are just as a birthright. 
The people of Hawaii, the people of our race, who are 
the rightful owners of the land, must by their votes say 
who it is they want to have rule over them' and if it be 
another than myself I will show my faith in my own 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


51 


counsel by yielding the earliest and most continued 
obedience.” 

Keona and his daughter, of all the people present, 
were the only ones who fully comprehended Kohala’s 
reply, and it was evident from the expression of the 
chief that he did not indorse the views of the regal 
young republican. He was still moved by the old tra- 
ditions as to rank ; he was himself a chief by right of 
birth, and a greater right than that was beyond his com- 
prehension. Yet he had the wisdom to see that where 
the people might be divided as to the choice of a ruler, 
as they certainly were in Hawaii, that it would add to 
the security of Kohala’s throne if a majority of the 
people indicated him as their choice. 

“It shall be even as Kohala says,” called out the chief. 
“With the morrow’s sun I will dispatch young men who 
can read and write to all the islands, and they shall find 
who is the choice of the people. This we shall do to 
please Kohala, for there can be no doubt as to the re- 
sult. But when he is our king — and he surely will be 
—lie will hold us the stronger to him the more he ig- 
nores the laws and customs of the Avhites.. Our motto 
must be : ‘A king of our own, and Hawaii for the Ha- 
waiians !’ ” 

This was said with a fire and an energy that were 
contagious, and when the chief turned to the faces of 
the people about him he saw a new light in the eyes 
of the men, who gave expression to their approval in 
a cheer that echoed down the cavern depths for fully 
a minute after. 

“Kohala will give his heart to the wishes of his people ; 
that we know, and that the people believe, and so will 
they give him their faith, and, if need be, their lives. 


52 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 

We shall know all when the next full moon rises over 
Hawaii ; then we shall meet here to greet the king and 
his queen, and our boats will be ready to take them, as 
befits their rank, to the palace at Honolulu. Now let 
us descend to the shore where other friends await us 
with a feast.” ^ 

So spoke Helna, who, in addition to his priestly duties, 
acted as master of ceremonies to the great chief Keona, 
to whom he was warmly attached. 

Fresh torches were lit, and the Kahinas took the ad- 
vance ; then came the girls, with Leila in their midst, 
while the men with spears formed in advance of and to 
the rear of the* chief and Kohala ; and so the procession 
went down to the shore, but not as the people had come. 

By a descent, sometimes steep, and again as smooth 
and hard and glistening as a fioor of polished steel, the 
Kahinas led the way through the rocky cavern. The • 
torches fiashed on black side chambers, like cells set 
in the walls of a mighty prison, or they turned to blood 
the subterranean streams that crossed or ran along their 
course. 

The way was familiar to every person but Kohala, 
who had not visited the cavern since he was a child of 
seven, and then it was to be betrothed to the infant 
daughter of the chief. 

It was well that etiquette required the young man to 
keep silent as he went down through the sacred, black 
depths, for his heart was anxious and full, but not with 
the cares of Hawaii. 

At length from the far front there came the dull 
booming, as of distant guns, accompanied by a ceaseless 
roar that might have shook steadier nerves than those 
of the Hawaiians had they not known that the booming 


K^HALA OF HAWAII. 


53 


was caused by the fall of the breakers on the barrier 
reef and the roar by the ceaseless flow and recession of 
the waves on the shell-lined shore. 

The exit from the cave was guarded by a regiment of 
plume-crowned palms, over which the moon, now at its 
full, poured a peaceful, silvery light that added to the 
calm grandeur of the scene. 

As soon as the procession came into the light the men 
to the rear sent up a long, shrill shout, that was an- 
swered by another and a more prolonged shout by men 
in the direction of the shore, along which a number of 
fires, like blazing fountains, sent plumes of flame into 
the sky. 

Then the companions of Leila began to sing : 

“ Hail to the king and his bride, 

Men of the hills and the sea, 

Kohala has come from the white land 
To the green vales of fair Hawaii.” 

Fully two thousand men and women were gathered 
about the fires on the shore, and the swarms of out- 
rigger canoes drawn up on the beach told how a ma- 
jority of the people must have come. 

They had prepared a great feast in honor of the king, 
for such they now regarded Kohala. Meats and fish, 
vegetables and fruit, and the national dish, “poi,” all 
crowned with flowers, as were the lithe maidens who 
served the banquet, found sharp appetites to appreciate 
them ; but the honored guest— and, it may be, Leila— 
were the only persons present who did not enjoy the 
feast. 

. Finely woven mats, spread on the ground and bordered 
by flowers, served as tables ; and tea was handed round 


54 KOHALA OF HAWAII. 

in fancifully carved cocoanut-shells.“" It was a native 
banquet, plus many things unknown till the coming 
of the whites. 

The eating was accompanied with songs and shouts of 
laughter, and many of the jests directed by the girls at 
Leila were so personal, though invariably pleasant, that 
the beautiful girl was kept in a state of blushing agita- 
tion. 

As soon as the feast was over the older men lit their 
pipes and drew back some distance so as to leave a wide, 
open space between them and the fires. Back of these 
the young men stood up with 4;heir shields on their left 
arms and their right hands grasping their spears about 
the center. 

Kohala and Keona, with Leila between them, sat on 
a raised seat that looked like a bank of gorgeous flowers, 
and back of them were brilliant groups of women, all 
blossom-crowned and all showing by their display of 
white teeth and flashing black eyes their intense en- 
joyment of the occasion. 

In Hawaii, as in all the Pacific Islands to the south, 
dancing is a part of every religious and festal gathering. 
It is said that Samra and New Zealand were colonized 
by the Hawaiians. The language, folk-lore and customs 
common to all would indicate a common ancestry ; but, 
be that as it may, the dancing of the “hoola” girls, as 
the young women skilled in the graceful art are called, 
is as popular in Hawaii to-day as it was when the natives 
welcomed and entertained Captain Cook more than a 
century ago. 

As soon as the space was cleared before the great cen- 
tral fire a band of twoscore girls, crowned and draped 
with flowers till they resembled animated bouquets, 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


55 


sprang with airy grace into the opening, saluted Kohala 
and the chief, and then, at a signal given by the clap- 
ping of the leader’s hands, the wonderful dance began. 

The music was supplied by the singing of a group of 
women seated on the ground, and the changes in the 
graceful mazes were made to the rhythmic beating of 
the spears on the shields. 

In addition to being an exquisite dance, such as would 
have made the fame and fortune of the maitre de ballet 
who could have produced it on the stage, this was also 
a most expressive pantomime. The ardor of the lover 
and the coyness of the maiden were pictured with an 
excellence and delicacy that amounted to art. The 
jealousy of rivals, the opposition of friends, the secret 
meetings, the agony of parting, and then the elope- 
ment, the capture, the reconciliation and the mar- 
riage, were all depicted in a way that could not have 
been made more poetic and dramatic by the use of 
words. 

Leila gradually lost her self-consciousness and be- 
came enraptured with the scene. The pearly teeth 
flashed through the parted carnation of her lips. Her 
long-lashed black eyes were aglow, and, forgetting 
herself in the excitement of the occasion, she added 
her voice to those of the singing women at her feet. 

Now and then she shot a glance at the face of the 
young man seated by her side, and she wondered that 
he could be so cold and impassive amid such a glow 
of joyous excitement. How could she know that his 
tlioughts were with his heart in the cottage of the white 
woman at Honolulu? 


56 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

OPENING THE EYES OF LOVE. 

Colonel Ellis had been a resident of Hawaii since the 
close of the great war in his own land. His forethought 
and energy had made him rich ; but while this was the 
purpose of his voluntary exile, he regarded as his own 
the rights of the natives of Hawaii. 

The indifference of the Queen to the moral standards 
that prevail in cultured communities, her, weakness in 
yielding to the influence of selflsh favorites and her fierce 
defiance of the constitutional restraints that environed 
the throne were seen and their consequences appre- 
ciated by Colonel Ellis before others, who were equally 
involved in the consequences, dreamed of their danger. 

It was Colonel Ellis who induced Kohala to spend six 
years at school in America and Europe. It was Colonel 
Ellis who cared for the young man’s estates and made 
them as productive and profitable as his own ; and it was 
the colonel who early instilled into the mind of the youth 
those principles of republicanism that gave him 'such a 
contempt for hereditary rulers. 

/ Colonel Ellis and the men associated with him had 
fully resolved to check the mad course of the Queen by 
making vacant the throne ; but they had the wisdom to 
see that a native figure of some kind must be kept on or 
near that ornamental seat, so as to appease the feelings 
of the Hawaiians. 

With Kohala in power. Colonel Ellis saw that Hawaii 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


57 


would be practically republican, and that he could, 
through the influence of this young man, bring the 
natives to his way of thinking, and in time make real 
his dream of annexation to the land from which he had 
himself been so long an exile. 

It had been decided by the Americans that if the mar- 
riage of Kohala could be made to play a part in the 
drama now on the stage at Honolulu it would be good 
diplomacy and sound statesmanship to have him marry 
the Princess Kaiulani, then at school in England, and 
whom Queen Liliuokalani had selected to succeed herself 
on the throne. 

Tliere appeared to be one thing on which all the friends 
and foes of Kohala were agreed, and that was that he 
would serve their purpose better by marrying some one 
at once. 

As we have seen, the natives who opposed the Queen 
and who were led by Keona, regarded his marriage with 
Leila, the daughter of the chief of Hawaii, as practically 
settled. Many of the Americans were anxious, for 
reasons of State policy, that he should marry the half- 
bred schoolgirl Kaiulani, who must come at once from 
England for that purpose, though they would not seri- 
ously object to Leila. 

The Queen was resolved that Kohala should marry the 
Englishwoman, Marguerite Holmes, for she well knew 
that such a course would mean his own political sui- 
cide, and hers was the one scheme that entirely met the 
young man’s approval. 

The English were not so much interested in the young 
man’s marriage as that he should be induced to raise the 
banner of revolt and declare himself king, when their 
Government could step in as a peacemaker between the 


58 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


rivals, and, seizing the islands till the quarrel could be 
adjusted, see to it that it never was adjusted an^ the 
hold never released. 

Among all these diverse factions the English, though 
working quietly and out of sight, stood the best chance 
of success, for they had enlisted on their side Marguerite 
Holmes, the one person to whose will and wishes Kohala, 
since their first meeting, had ever yielded implicit obedi- 
ence. 

Colonel Ellis was not the man to win a point at the ex- 
pense of a good woman’s character; but, like all manly, 
honest men, he loathed, above all things, that unsexed 
creature — the woman adventurer. He believed, from 
the moment he first heard of her, that Marguerite 
Holmes was of this character, and he resolved to ex- 
pose her; but in a spirit of fairness he made up his 
mind, first, to learn for himself what manner of wo- 
man she was, and if she were* purchasable, as he be- 
lieved, to make it worth her while to leave the islands 
quietly and without telling Kohala. If she should re- 
fuse to do this, he and his friends must be in a position 
to open Kohala’s eyes so that not even his unreasoning 
love could blind him to the character of the woman for 
whose uncertain and wavering affections he had been 
so ready to barter away his own splendid future and the 
happiness and prosperity of the Hawaiians whom he so 
loved. 

To carry out his purpose Colonel Ellis secured an in- 
troduction to Mrs. Holmes, through his friend. Dr. Wal- 
lace, who was well known as one of the little widow’s 
most ardent admirers. 

Marguerite Holmes had heard of Colonel Ellis. She 
knew he was a widower, and the richest man on the 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


59 


islands ; but the fact that he was a man would have 
been to her sufficient reason for treating him with all 
consideration, and bringing him under the control of 
her witchery. 

After his introduction, Colonel Ellis asked for leave to 
call on Mrs. Holmes, and she graciously consented. He 
was a man of the world, and, withal, a knightly admirer 
of the sex, and so he saw that to win he must appear to 
come under her influence, as others had done; yet he was 
not the man to permit himself to be seriously influenced 
by a designing woman, such as he believed Mrs. Holmes 
to be. 

He called the day after his introduction, and found 
Mrs. Holmes dressed in dainty fashion for the street, 
when she always looked her best. She was delighted to 
meet him again, and the expression in the long-lashed 
eyes and the musical voice confirmed her words. 

She sat facing him in the little flower-decorated bou- 
doir, and would have discussed the weather and other 
trite matters in her graceful fashion had not the colonel, 
with an effort that was evident, come at once to the pur- 
pose of his visit. 

♦ “Mrs. Holmes,” he began, “we are threatened with 
troublesome times in Hawaii, and you can help to bring 
them about, or you can do much to prevent them.” 

“I?” she exclaimed, and she laid her index finger on 
the rim of her becoming violet bonnet. “Surely you are 
mistaken, Colonel Ellis. What influence for weal or 
woe can a poor little nobody like myself have on the 
affairs of Hawaii?” 

“A great deal, Mrs. Holmes,” was the serious response. 

“But in what way?” she asked, with increasing sur- 
prise. 


60 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


‘'You will not think me rude if I am entirely frank?’’ 

“I cannot imagine Colonel Ellis being rude.” 

‘ ‘Thanks. I certainly do not mean to be. But first, a 
question or two, which you need not answer if you have 
anything to conceal.” 

“A thousand questions, if you will.” 

‘‘You are an Englishwoman?” 

“I am.” 

“Alone in Honolulu?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you know the man they call Captain Feather- 
stone?” 

“I have that honor,” she said, more coldly. 

“If you are his friend it may be well for you to know 
that this Captain Featherstone’s conduct is not unknown 
to the men who have the interests of these islands at heart, 
and that if he persists in his present course he may have 
to make a sudden and unexpected exit.” 

“Had you not better communicate 'this to Captain 
Featherstone himself?” she asked, with a perceptible 
tremor of the lips. 

“No; when we come to speak to this man we shall 
be ready to act, and we shall act in no mild way. He’ 
is your countryman, and from his visits to you* we 
must believe that he is, at least, your friend, and so 
the warning must come through you ; for, to be candid 
with you, you are regarded with suspicion,” said Colonel 
Ellis, with the manner of a man anxious to get at the 
heart of the matter at once. 

Marguerite Holmes’s face was usually palid; now it 
grew ashy, and a startled look came into her eyes, yet 
she managed to retain her composure, as she asked : 

“What have I done to excite .suspicion?” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


61 


“At such times as these everything and every one is 
apt to excite the suspicion of the anxious. Another ques- 
tion: Do you know the young Hawaiian, Kohala?” 

“I do,” she replied. 

“Very well?” 

“I think I can say : Yes, very well.” 

“And you are his friend?” 

“I mean to be.” 

“And he is your admirer?” 

“He has, unfortunately, that bad taste,” she said ; then, 
sitting more erect and looking down at her interlocked 
fingers, incased in dark kid gloves, she added: “But my 
friends and my likes and dislikes should be my own 
private affair.” 

“Ordinarily I should say you were quite right, but it 
so happens that your friends are people of public prom- 
inence in Hawaii, and there is a suspicion — whether 
well-founded or not I will not pretend to say — that 
you and this Captain Featherstone are trying to in- 
fluence Kohala for your own ends. Permit me to say, 
as one who would come to your rescue if you needed 
an unselfish friend, that in trying to influence Kohala 
to become a tool of England’s diplomacy you are work- 
ing for his ruin. ” 

“I working for the ruin of Kohala !” she exclaimed. 

“Yes, quite as much as if you were planning his mur- 
der,” responded Colonel Ellis. 

“May I ask in what way?” 

“By leading him to believe that you love him and will 
marry him.” 

“And pray why should I not love him and marry 
him if we are both agreed?” she asked, witli spirit. 

“Ordinarily there c>=>Hld be no opposition to such a 


62 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


course but, unfortunately for you, Kohala at this time 
does not belong to himself, and, unfortunately for him, 
you are virtually engaged to this adventurer who calls 
himself Captain Featherstone. I mean no offense. What 
I say I can prove. For our own protection we Ameri- 
cans have been compelled to search out the antecedents 
of all who are opposed to us in Hawaii ; and I may say 
that we understand the purpose of yourself and the man 
with whom you are so unfortunately associated.” 

Colonel Ellis did not look at her while he was speak- 
ing ; but as soon as he had concluded he turned his keen 
gray eyes to her face and saw that she was much excited, 
though she made a-brave effort to appear calm. At 
length she met his gaze, and said : 

‘‘And it is to tell me this that you have come?” 

‘‘To tell you this, and much more, for I must not per- 
mit gallantry to stand between me and \^hat I believe 
to be my duty. You can marry Captain Featherstone 
whenever you please, and no man in Hawaii will dare 
to question your right ; but when you essay to make a 
tool of Kohala, in whom we all are interested, then for 
the common safety and the common good we deem it 
a duty to warn you. I tell you now, this must stop. If 
you desire to leave Honolulu I will secure you passage 
on the steamer that leaves here for Australia to-morrow, 
and I and my friends will see to it that you have means 
enough to keep traveling the world for years, if you so 
desire.” 

The colonel looked at her question ingly. She had now 
regained her well-bred self-control. 

‘‘I do not fear your covert threats,” she said, very 
deliberately. “I am an Englishwoman, and the British 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


63 


Consul at this port will see that I am guaranteed my 
rights.” 

“Go to the British Consul and mention my name. He 
will assure you that I have no purpose to interfere with 
the rights of any human being ; and he will also tell you 
that, when in a strange land, his country’s flag is power- 
less to protect you in violating the laws of that land.” 

, “How am I violating the laws?” she asked. 

“You are conspiring to overthrow the existing Govern- 
ment, and to bring Hawaii under British control. You 
are coquetting with a man who may be our ruler to- 
morrow ; but I have proof that as soon as your purpose 
is accomplished you will leave these islands with Feath- 
erstone. There are no walls in the world that have so 
many ears as those of Honolulu. Now make your 
choice: go on with your scheme and prepare for the 
consequences, or quietly take your departure, and thank 
Heaven you are well out of a bad scrape. I shall not ask 
you for an answer now, but will call at this time to-mor- 
row. I am sorry to have troubled you, but I felt it was 
my duty to say what I have said. Others, to whom you 
are quite free to report this interview, will tell you that 
I usually mean what I say, and I was never more in 
earnest in my life . Good-morning, madam.” 

The colonel turned and left the room, Mrs. Holmes 
recognizing his departure by the slightest inclination of 
her dainty head. 

For some time after her guest had left she sat in the 
same chair, her long-lashed eyes fastened on her inter- 
locked fingers and a look of unusual seriousness on her 
face, which had aged perceptibly during the meeting. 

Her vanity was hurt, for Colonel Ellis was the first 
man she had met in Honolulu who had not treated her 


64 


KOHALA OF -HAWAII. 


with smiling gallantry and induced her to believe that 
lie was impressed by her. But she had to confess to her- 
self that she respected him all the more for his strength 
and candor. 

After fully half an hour, during which time the taci- 
turn Clem popped in her head to look at her, Marguerite 
Holmes remained absorbed in contemplation. At lengtli 
she stood up, removed her bonnet and wrap, then went 
to her own room, and, throwing herself face downward 
on the bed, sobbed as if her heart were breaking. 

Did she lament the attack made on Captain Feather- 
stone? Was her heart cut at the prospect of being forced 
to surrender her hold on the ardent and romantic Kohala? 
Was her conscience stirred to life by the memory of a life 
error? Did she fret over Colonel Ellis’s discovery and 
the prospect of her own threatened ambitions; or did 
she, womanlike, give way to her tears as the only com- 
forting outlet to her own consciousness of helplessness 
and weakness? To these inquiries we cannot make an- 
swer, but the details of these records may enable the 
reader to determine. 


CHAPTER IX. 

KOHALA ’S JEALOUSY AEOUSED. 

At the council called by Keona of Hawaii there was 
not a person present with a drop of white blood in his 
veins. At the feast all were natives. Such ineetings 
were always held in secret, and -uards were kei)t out 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


65 


to prevent the approach of a white man or to give warn- 
ing of the same. * 

Formerly Americans and Englishmen, with the brutal 

• * 

arrogance of race superiority, have tried to force their 
way into such native gatherings; but the fact that such 
intruders were always “found missing’’ soon afterward 
and were never seen or heard of again led to the belief 
that the natives, though ordinarily very amiable people, 
were ready to defend some of their rights with their 
lives, and that they were quite as ready, if the occasion 
warranted it, to take life, as in the days of Captain Cook. 
There were signs in the upper sky of coming day when 
Keona, preceded by four tall natives bearing paddles, 
walked down between Kohala and Leila to the shore. 
Tlie young women preceded them, singing as if the 
night had brought no fatigue, and the men with the 
spears and shields brought up the rear. 

As became his rank, the canoe of Keona was the 
largest. Into this the chief, his prospective son-in-law 
and his daughter got, and then a score of strong men 
pushed it out from the shell-strewn sand to the smooth 
expanse between the barrier reef and the shore. 

As soon as the canoe was afloat the four rowers sprang 
from the water and took their seats, without causing a 
roll in*the light, graceful craft. 

Kohala had a misty memory of having seen such sights 
when a child, and particularly on the occasion of his 
former visit to the sacred cavern ; but this did not im- 
pair the striking and picturesque novelty of his sur- 
roundings. 

From his flower-covered seat beside Leila he looked 
about him and saw an army, or rather a flotilla, of 
canoes dashing from the shore, a^ if endowed with life, 


66 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


and he beheld them forming with all the regularity of 
trained troops on parade. 

From the center of the flotilla, after all were in readi- 
ness and the flres on shore extinguished, the shell bugle 
of the old priest, Helna, sounded the signal to advance. 
This was answered by a cheer from the men; then, to 
the singing of the women, the rise and fall and splash 
of the paddles kept perfect time, and, as if directed by 
one power, the canoes moved up the shore. 

The morning and evening twilights are brief on the 
lines of and within the tropics; but in Hawaii the 
mountains, like Mauna Loa, towering above the white 
shore and emerald valleys for fourteen thousand feet, 
catch the light of the coming sun long before he is 
visible to the lower world; and so, like great reflectors, 
they diffuse the rays and fill their surroundings with 
such a lovely, poetic twilight as no other land in the 
world enjoys. Day does not seem to come with the 
sun, but rather to float down, cool, calm and refresh- 
ing, from the snowy heights of the inland peaks. 

Flohala, to the fine imagination peculiar to his race, 
added the taste and culture of the world’s Lest schools. 
He had the childlike freshness and capacity for enjoy- 
ment of the savage plus the culture that comes from an 
eager study of all that the foremost people have done in 
the world’s advance. 

He saw the opal light turning the mountains into great 
beacons and flooding the shore and sea. He saw the east 
glovvTng like an amethyst, then changing to translu- 
cent ruby. He saw the pink glow on the shore and the 
dark emerald of the stately palms gradually growing 
more distinct, as if they were marching out in stately 
ranks to meet the canoes. He «iaw the black water 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


67 


changing to •liquid malachite and the breakers on the 
, barrier reef turning to banks of iridescent pearl. 

The light grew more intense, and he saw the bright 
eyes and eager faces of his warlike followers, and he 
heard the singing of the maidens, as sweet and fresh as 
when their voices first thrilled him in the sacred cavern. 
The light grew brighter; the east was ablaze; the rim 
of the mighty sun' rose over the sea and marked out a 
path that fiashed, straight as an arrow and 'red as the 
fresh heart-bipod, to the shore. And the red rays turned 
redder the stern brow of Keona; but they made more 
beautiful, because they revealed more distinctly, the 
face of Leila, who sat with bowed head by his side. 

If ever a scene were calculated to absorb wholly a 
man’s thought it was this one. But while nothing 
escaped the notice of the youth, in whose honor all this 
was being done, there was one thing needed to complete 
his happiness. If Marguerite Holmes were by his side 
to enjoy with him, then, indeed, would the cup of his 
rapture be full. But, whether down on the glowing, 
pulsating 'sea, or up on the calm, frozen heights of 
Mauna Loa, either would have been Eden with her by 
' his side. 

The sun was half an hour high when the canoe of the 
chief turned into a palm-bordered cove, the canoes of 
his immediate retainers following. Before the flotilla 
broke up the men rose in their canoes, raised their 
paddles like poised lances, and, taking the signal from 
the shell trumpets of the Kahinas, they sent up a cheer ; 
then the singing women rose, and, throwing toward him 
the flowers that had adorned their shining black tresses, 
shouted : “Long live Kohala, our king ! Long live Leila, 
his bride !” 


68 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Althougli a Hawaiian in every fiber of his being, Keona 
was far too great and shrewd a man to ignore the agencies 
whereby the white man gathered to himself wealth and 
power. He might be called well educated. He was a 
prosperous sugar planter, and he had pasture lands 
covered by vast herds up the mountain-sides. 

His home, set amid groves of orange and lemon, and 
walled in by irregular ranks of cocoanut and date palm 
trees, was quite as grand in its way as the palace at Hon- 
olulu. His house was furnished after the American style, 
and an array of trained servants were ready to do his 
bidding ; yet it was well known that, when he did not 
have white visitors, he dressed and ate as his ancestors 
had done before they knew that there was a white man 
in the world. 

The canoes made a landing at a little pier near 
Keona’s house ; but, instead of leaving the shore, the 
men and women divided, one party going up the stream 
to a line of bathhouses, and within a few minutes all 
were enjoying a morning bath. 

After the bath Keona escorted his guest to .the house, 
where they found Leila and breakfast awaiting them. 
Kohala ate some fruit and then was escorted to a cool 
chamber. He lay down, and the scenes through which 
lie had passed the night before and his last meeting with 
Marguerite Holmes chased each other in wild confusion 
tlirough his brain, till lie dropped off to sleep. 

When he awoke it was high noon, and a native boy 
was beside the bed fanning him. In response to Kohala ’s 
question, the boy, after bowing, said, in the native tongue : 

“It is the hour when the sun is the hottest and the 
shadows the shortest.” 

“And your master’-'” 



KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


69 


“He has ridden into the hills to look after the herds.’*’ 

“And your mistress, Leila?” 

“Leila bade me say, when you awoke, that she awaits 
you with luncheon in the arbor that overlooks the sea,” 
said the boy, with a graceful wave of the fan in the di- 
rection from which came the sound of the breakers on 
the barrier reef. 

Kohala rose and dressed, in European attire, which 
he was very glad to resume; then, guided by the lad, 
he went down to the beautiful, blossom-covered arbor, 
where he found Leila, dressed in a loose, cool 'white 
wrapper and reading a book, just as he had seen Ameri- 
can girls doing in the shaded grounds of the best sum- 
mer villas at Newport. 

With an ease and grace that he had never seen sur- 
passed, Leila bade him good-morning, gave him her soft, 
shapely hand and asked him how he had rested. ^ 

She was a beautiful savage in her costume of the night 
before ; now she was a well-bred lady, without any sug- 
gestion of ornament about her person, unless it might 
be the single crimson blossom at her throat. 

As she moved about, the loose white robe, that in itself 
was far from graceful, served to bring out the beauty of 
her lithe form and the exquisite grace of her bearing. 

He would, indeed, have been a poor physiognomist 
who could not have told from the girl’s suppressed 
manner and the timid glances of the soft black eyes, 
as she arranged the luncheon and fixed seats for her- 
self and Kohala, that she loved him with all the fire 
and force of her intense nature. 

As Kohala watched her he had to confess to himself 
that she was far more beautiful than Marguerite Holmes, 
and also that she was ouite the Englishwoman’s peer in 


70 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


grace and culture. He also realized that, for his own 
good and the good of Hawaii, it was his duty to marry 
this exquisite native girl. But love is as selfish as it is 
unreasoning. 

After they had nibbled at the fruits and drank each 
a glass of iced orange sherbet, Kohala said : 

“It seems as if all the peace of heaven were here. 
Leila, as the mistress of such a home, you should be 
very happy.” 

“No man or woman can be happy/’ replied Leila, 
with her eyes fixed on the limitless sea, “so long as the 
heart yearns for something it does not possess.” 

“Surely you are not in that state? ” He regretted 
having said this the instant he had spoken. 

Although cultured and refined, the chief’s daughter 
had not been brought up to conceal her feelings. Up 
to the coming of Kohala from beyond the sea she had 
never had a Avish ungratified. 

Since her earliest memory she had been taught that 
she was the betrothed of the youth who was yet to be 
the king of Hawaii. She loved to think of him in soli- 
tude, and as she grew to womanhood and he sent her 
his pictures from the land of the white man she tried 
to give life to the shadow and to picture him all she 
found him when he came. 

It was not with her a case of love at first sight ; she 
had loved him through all the years of her reasoning 
life, loved him with increasing intensity as the years 
rolled on, and this love culminated in the most ardent 
passion when she met him after his return. 

She had heard of his infatuation for Marguerite 
Holmes, and she had seen him lavishing on the little 
Englishwoman the attentions for which her own heart 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


71 


hungered; and she tried to allay her jealousy and to 
soothe her anguish with the belief that he would change 
as soon as he was freed from the allurements and temp- 
tations of Honolulu, and, above all, from the influence 
of the Queen, whose purpose, with keen feminine per- 
ception, she saw. 

Before replying to Kohala’s question she looked at 
him for some seconds, until he began to feel uncom- 
fortable under her gaze, then said : 

“Yes. I am in that state. Kohala, can you remem- 
ber when we were in the cavern before last night?.” 

“It is to me like a dream,” he replied. 

“But you know why you went there?” 

“Yes ; I was taken there by my father.” 

“As I was by mine. I was then but four years of age. 
You were four years older ; still, from then till now in 
not one hour of my waking life have the obligations of 
that time been absent from my mind. While you were 
in foreign lands I was praying for your return and 

planning for the happier days of Hawaii that must 
surely come to our race when you were their ruler 
and I walfe your wife. Have you, too, thought of these ' 
things, Kohala?” 

“I have,” he replied, with averted face. 

“And you have hoped for them?” 

“The happiness of hiy race has been the one motive 
of my life. It is that that made me a student in the 
white man’s schools and brought me back to my native 
land. But I have had no time to give to love, and I 
have come to think that, no matter what our parents 
may have done in the long ago, when we reached years 
of discretion we should be controlled by our own hearts. ” 

“And that is what I believe, and that is what I feel. 


72 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Think you I could not have had lovers among the best 
of our own people and the richest of the whites?” she 
asked, as she sat more erect, and a strange, dangerous 
light came into her great black eyes. 

“I am sure of it,” replied Kohala, “for you are very 
beautiful — more beautiful than any white woman I have 
ever met, and wise as their wisest.” 

“But think you that I have?” 

‘ No.” 

“And why have I not?” 

“Because the best vras not worthy of you,” he said, 
evasively. 

“No!” she responded, with startling emphasis. “It 
is because through all my life I have loved and waited 
for the coming of my king ! You came, and I felt that 
the day that was to make me your queen was at hand. 
You came, but with you came a white woman, and they 
tell me that she, like a thief who cannot value what she 
has stolen, has robbed me of the heart of Kohala ! Is 
this true?” 

Kohala’s cheeks had been olive, but now they turned 
red. Ill his confusion he rose to his feet and got so far 
in his denial as to say, “No !” when a step was heard on 
the shell walk near by, and the next instant Colonel Ellis 
stood at the entrance of the arbor. 

The colonel was well known to Leila, and, after saluL 
ing the young people and telling them that he had just 
come from Honolulu, he took a letter from his breast- 
pocket and handed it to Kohala, saying : 

“That is of great importance to you. Read it. Leila 
will pardon you.” 

The colonel sat down and began to fan himself with 
his straw hat. while Kohala stepped outside the arbor. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


73 


The young man tore off the envelope and was sur- 
prised to ^see that the writing was the colonel’s. He 
read the following : 

Dear Kohala — You must return to Honolulu with 
me at once. What your friends have feared is true. The 
Englishwoman has deceived you. She has other lovers, 
and one of them she is going to marry as soon as her pur- 
pose with you is gained. This I am ready to prove to 
your entire satisfaction. 

“ Your friend, so long as you are the friend of Hawaii, 

“Norman Ellis.” 

As Kohala read he leaned against the arbor, and his 
lips drew back like a scabbard from his white teeth. 


CHAPTER X. 

BACK TO HONOLULU. 

Kohala, as if unwilling to credit the evidence of his 
sight, read over and over again the note Colonel Ellis 
had given him ; then, satisfied that he had read it aright 
tlie first time, he crushed it in his right palm and stared 
down at the breakers on the reef without seeing them. 

At length he became aware of the hum of voices in 
the arbor, and he came back to a comprehension of the 
situation. 

He realized that it would not do to show Leila that he 
was awfully excited, lest he might be asked to explain 
tlie cause ; so, with an effort of will, he brought his lips 
together and covered the daggerlike flash of Iiis teeth. 
From his handsome face he succeeded in banishing the 


74 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


fierce expression that had transformed him for the in- 
stant into an angered and unreasoning savage. But, 
determined though he was, and successful though he 
was in banishing from his eyes and mouth the signs of 
intense hate, he was powerless to still the wild leaping 
of his heart. He heard the colonel saying : 

“Yes, Leila, it is all-important that Kohala should re- 
turn with me at once to Honolulu. I shall leave a letter 
for your father explaining why I have not remained to 
see him.” 

“But if there is danger to Kohala in Honolulu,” said 
Leila, “I shall go there with you.” 

“But there is not, I assure you. We have enlisted a 
regiment of men who are under the command of Colonel 
Loring — you know him ; he is betrothed to my daughter 
Alice — and if any danger threatens Kohala he and his 
men are ready to avert it. The Queen is using her 
every effort to retain the throne ; but it is rocking be- 
neath her, and she must soon descend of her own vo- 
lition or be hurled to the ground by the motion,” said 
the colonel. • 

“And is there danger of war?” asked Leila. 

“No, I hope not; yet we realize that the best way tq 
avert it is to be prepared for it. But as for Kohala, fear 
not for him,” said the colonel, with a little laugh that 
found no response in her heart. “I shall return him to 
you in safety. ’ ’ 

The colonel went to the entrance of the arbor, and was 
about to call the youth for whom he had come when he 
came in himself. 

“Well, Kohala, what think you of that note?” asked 
the colonel. 

“I cannot believe it true,” was the reply. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


75 


“Nor did I think you would. But your own eyes and 
ears will prove to you that it is every syllable true. Are 
you ready to leave for Hilo?” 

“I am ; but I must first see Keona and express to him 
my great gratitude for his kindness.” 

“I shall do that service for you,” said Leila, “though 
^ my father wants no thanks for what is to him at once 
a duty and a pleasure. If our friend. Colonel Ellis, 
thinks your presence needed at once at Honolulu, go 
with him, for in times like these we cannot give thought 
to personal ease nor to ordinary courtesy, if they detain 
us.” 

' ‘Spoken like the daughter of a chief ! ’ ’ cried the colonel, 
who had a great admiration for the beautiful girl and 
who was more than eager that his ward should regard 
her in the same light. 

The colonel had come over from Hilo in a buggy drawn 
by a pair of his owm team, and he was famed for having 
the fastest and best-bred horses in Hawaii. 

Kohala’s trunk was fastened to the shelf behind the 
buggy, and the horses w^ere hitched and prancing with 
impatience to be off. 

The young man gave Leila his hand, and he was about 
to raise hers gallantly to his lips when, to his surprise 
and confusion, she threw her graceful arms about his 
neck and kissed him again and again, saying, as she 
released him: 

“My king! You are mine! You belong to Leila and 
Hawaii.” 

“Splendid girl, that Leila,” said Colonel Ellis, as the 
horses dashed over the circular road along the coast to 
Hilo. “She is w^orth a million such creatures as that 


76 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


little, thin adventuress you are breaking your heart 
over.” 

“She is all you say,” replied Kohala, yet internally 
revolting against what the colonel had said. 

The young man had heard before that Marguerite 
Holmes had deceived others and would deceive him, 
yet so long as he had not the direct evidence of this 
fact he was unwilling to believe that she was not all 
she claimed to be to him. 

He honored and respected Colonel Ellis, who, since 
his childhood, had been to him as a father, and, while 
he believed him noble, he tried to comfort himself with 
the thought that he was not true to himself in his con- 
demnation of Marguerite Holmes. 

A few minutes of silence followed this, during which 
time the colonel, who was smoking a cigar, succeeded in 
getting the spirited team down to a settled pace, which 
it could keep up without harm as far as Hilo, fifteen 
miles away. 

The woman he was flying to — not the beautiful girl 
he had left — filled and troubled the heart of the young 
man. 

He reasoned that other women had been f^-ise ; he had 
read aiid heard of such ; but what lover ever thought it 
possible that the woman he loved could be placed in 
such a category? Certainly not the youth who was 
undergoing his first delightful but torturing experience 
of the tender passion. 

Coughing, to steady his nerves rather than to clear 
his throat, Kohala, unable longer to keep back the an- 
guish and curiosity that filled his heart, asked : 

“How did you learn, colonel, that Mrs. Holmes" was 
deceiving me?” 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


“Through the best of sources,” said the colonel. 

“But what are they?” 

“My own ears.”' 

“But you do not know her.” 

“But I do.” 

“I was not aware of that.” 

“Still it is true.” 

“Then you must have ♦become acquainted with lier 
since I loft.” 

“That is true.” 

“How did you come to meet her?” 

“Through Dr. Wallace.” 

“I do not know him.” 

“Well, I know him. He is a fine old fellow and a 
widower, and, I may add, he is one of this woman’s 
dupes. He, too, is in love with her; and believes she 
will accept him at the right time; and I am inclined 
to think she will if she does not hook a man more to 
her liking before she leaves Honolulu. Why, the woman 
had hardly set eyes on me before she began to spread her 
net to entrap me. But I know the tricks of the class,” 
and the colonel blew out a cloud of smoke and laughed 
till the horses threatened to run away. 

Speaking very slowly and as if with an effort, Kohahi 
asked : • 

“Is it because of her attempt to flirt with you that you 
judge her?” 

“Indeed it is not,” said the colonel. 

“Did you speak of me?” 

“Yes. I brought jmur name up.” 

“But why?” 

“Because I want to save you.” 

“And you told her so?” 


78 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“I did.” 

“And that is all you know against her?” 

“No, Kohala, for her own sake I wish it were.” 

“Do you object to telling jne the reason for your sus- 
picions?” 

“In connection with that woman, I have no sus- 
picions. ’ ’ 

“What then?” • 

“Convictions!” exclaimed the colonel. 

“And you have good reasons for them?” 

“The best in the world.” 

“Then, for Heaven’s sake tell me and ease my heart. 
I am sure you will say nothing you do not know to be 
true.” 

“Nothing that I do not know to be true. Since you 
left Honolulu I have, with my own eyes, seen your 
precious friend, Captain Featherstone, kissing the wo- 
man who is making a fool of you.” 

“I can’t believe it !” 

“Then you mean to say I am willfully lying?” said 
the colonel, with a ring of anger in his voice. 

“No, no, colonel, not that; only that you are deceiv- 
ing yourself,” replied Kohala, in a voice trembling^ with 
excitement. 

“Kohala, look at* me and tell me how long you have 
known me.” 

Without looking, Kohala replied : 

‘ ‘As long as I can remember. ” ’ ‘ 

“Did you ever know me to tell a lie?” 

“Never.” 

“Did you ever think my mind was not clear?” 

“No.” ■ . 

“Do you think I can see you there by my side?” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


79 


“Surely.” 

“And you hear my voice?” 

“Ido.” 

“And I hear yours?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, just as clearly and distinctly I saw this man 
Featherstone kissing tliis adventuress, Mrs. Holmes, and 
I heard him telling her that as soon as his plans were 
perfected and you were declared king that they should 
leave Honolulu as man and wife.” 

“When was this?” v 

“The night before I left.”. 

“And she seemed to consent 

“Seemed to consent ! When a woman offers no objec- 
tion to such familiarity she consents,” said the colonel, 
scornfully. 

“Pardon me, my best of friends, if for the moment 1 
should regard this as a horrible dream, said Kohala, 
with his hands pressed to his eyes as if to shut out tl\e 
burning light. “It is all so unexpected that I cannot 
realize it. She told me tliat she loved me, and, loving 
her, I believed it. If, in truth, she has deceived me, 
tlien farewell to her and Hawaii.” 

“That is ail nonsense, my son,” said the colonel, with 
more kindness in his voice. “Every young man worth 
a snap has passed through the same experience. Some 
one has said, and I believe it, that the human heart is 
like a beef-steak — the more it is pounded the tenderer 
it gets. Of course, you feel mighty bad over this. I 
remember I did when, many years ago, I discovered that 
my best girl had betrayed me and run away with an- 
other man ; but after a few weeks I got over it and was 


80 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


as good as new — better, indeed, for I had all the benefit 
of the experience.” 

“That may be,” said Kohala, quietly, “but you are not 
a Hawaiian.” 

“Oh, nonsense ! Wlien it comes to love, human nature 
is the same all the world over.” 

The colonel threw away the stump of the cigar he 
had been smoking and fixed his eyes on the road in 
front, far down which he could see the white steeples 
shooting up through the palms that embowered Hilo. 
Kohala wanted to dwell on this subject, but as he could 
get no comfort from the man who had given him all 
this agony he lapsed into silence. 

There was much that he had not told his friend, much 
that must yet come to his knowledge ; yet he dared not 
speak, for he felt that if the truth were known the blow, 
which he did not fear so far as it threatened himself, 
would fall on the woman he loved. 

He had all faith in Colonel Ellis, and believed him 
incapable of deceit or falsehood. He realized, further, 
that his guardian must have some ground for his charge ; 
but if an angel had appeared and told him at that mo- 
ment that Marguerite Holmes was false to him he 
would have treated the message with scorn and incre- 
dulity. 

Curiously enough, while^ his love for the Englishwo- 
man was strengthened rather than abated, and he still 
believed her entirely true and the colonel entirely mis- 
taken, he suddenly conceived the most violent dislike 
for Captain Featherstone. 

■ He could well see how Featherstone and every other 
man could fall in love with Marguerite ; but, loverlike, 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


81 


it was entirely beyond his comprehension that she sliould 
love any man but himself. 

At length the foaming horses were Iialted at the pier, 
where the colonel’s steam-yacht was made fast. 

Kohala’s trunk was taken on board. Steam wan up, 
and while a servant was walking the horses back to their 
stable the yacht was headed for the open sea. 

As soon as the vessel was under way Kohala went to 
liis stateroom and lay down. Some time afterward he 
was called to dinner, but he excused himself. 

xlbout ten o’clock that night a servant brought him in 
some tea and toast, but he could not eat it. Trouble is 
a great destroyer of appetite. 

It was midnight before he dropped off to sleep. Wlien 
he awoke the thumping of the engines had ceased, and, 
looking out tlirougli the port, he saw that the sun was 
well up and tliat the yacht was moored to her dock in 
the harbor of Honolulu. 


CHAPTER XI. 

PREPARING FOR THE STRUGGLE. 

Honolulu is never a bustling city, in the American 
sense. When the excitement caused by the Queen’s 
purpose to force an unjust and illegal constitution on 
the people came to the knowledge of* the citizens the 
city was in as great a state of uproar as Park Row, New 
York, on election night. 

The natives, as if dreading an explosion, the reason 
for which but a few of them could understand, drew 


82 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


off by themselves and discussed the situation in whispers 
from the standpoint of their fears, for, though they 
would stand up for the Queen against the encroachments 
of the white men, yet they did not like her. 

Bolder but equally cautious, the white population 
gathered in groups on the streets and discussed the revo- 
lution which all felt to be inevitable. 

The office of the American Minister was crowded with 
merchants, his own countrymen, and many French and 
Germans, all pondering over what was best to be done 
to insure protection to life and property in the event of 
an outbreak. 

By this time each side had decided on the course to be 
pursued, and as a result, Honolulu was in a state of calm 
that all saw was far more ominous than the first noisy 
and excited outbreak. 

It was well known to the citizens, well known to the . 
police, and, of course well known to the vigilant ad- 
herents of the Queen, who had now made the palace 
their headquarters, that bands of white men went nightly 
down the road to the race-track, where they threw out 
guards to prevent intrusion, and where it was believed 
Colonel Arthur Loring was drilling them, though as yet 
neither side had attempted to raid the arsenal, which it 
was well known both sides were watching. 

But the present calm was ominous. It was such as 
comes upon the Hawaiian Mountains with the black 
clouds that tell of an impending storm. 

The white, uniformed guard before the palace and the 
dusky policeman, pacing before the Parliament House 
across the way, seemed both absorbed in other matters 
than their immediate duties. 

Since the inevitable split between herself and a ma- 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


83 


jority of the foreign residents began the Queen had 
been seen but little on the streets, and then she was 
closely veiled and in a covered carriage. 

During the day there were but few people seen enter- 
ing or leaving the palace, but at night this seeming 
neglect was made up for. 

It was well known that the police were devoted to Her 
Majesty, and so they were shunned by her opponents, all 
of whom were prepared to resist an illegal arrest. 

But there were events of too much importance to the 
Queen to be kept from her knowledge till night. 

Colonel Ellis’s yacht, with Kohala on board, had 
scarcely been made fast to her dock when a young 
native, a clerk at the Government House, started for 
the palace. 

The Queen was closeted with her minister, Mr. Eli 
Porter, when the clerk rapped at the door and was told 
to enter, for, though the sovereigns of Hawaii have tried 
to imitate the formality and exclusiveness of European 
rulers, they have never had the means to support such 
state, nor is it at all certain that their native adherents, 
who still retain much of the old clan spirit, would sub- 
mit to it. 

“Hello, Lan !’’ called out Porter, when the young man 
stood bowing and panting before Her Majesty, “wliat is 
up now?” 

“Colonel Ellis has returned,” said the messenger. 

“Well,” snapped the Queen, “there is nothing startling 
in that. As there was no good ground for hoping that 
Colonel Ellis might be drowned, we, of course, expected 
liim back.” 

“But, Your Majesty,’' continued the messeiiger, 
“Kohala has come, too !” 


84 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Kohala here?” exclaimed the Queen. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

“And he returned with Colonel Ellis?” 

“He did, Your Majesty.” 

“Well, what do you think of it, Mr. Porter?” asked 
the Queen, as she turned and looked at her minister. 

“I am not at all surprised,” said Mr. Porter. “Indeed, 
I may say that I am glad.” Then, to the messenger: 
“That will do, Lan; you can leave.” 

As soon as the young man had gone out the Queen 
said, rather petulantly : 

“Why are you glad that the pretender is here, Mr. 
Porter?” 

“Because here we can watch him, and hold him. Once 
under the control of Keona and his daughter, he would 
be out of our reach. Why, I think it shows bad general- 
ship to fetch him here.” 

“They did not fetch him,” said the Queen, with a grim 
laugh. 

“Who brought him, think you?” ' 

“Marguerite Holmes.” 

“I think Your Majesty is right.” 

“I know I am.” 

“Good; then if Marguerite Holmes can control him— 
and I think there is but little doubt of her power — we 
must see to it that the lady does not escape our in- 
fluence,” said Porter, and he rose and backed two steps 
from the Queen’s presence, as if about to depart, when 
she gave her royal permission. 

“Do you know, Mr. Porter, that I have recently changed 
my mind about this woman?” said the Queen, with the 
subdued tone of one about to communicate a secret. 

Mr. Porter took a step nearer, ana asked : 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


85 


“In what way, Your Majesty?” 

“I think she is weak and cunning.” 

“Does Your Majesty call that a discovery?” asked Mr. 
Porter. 

“Not at all. But I have come to believe that she loves 
Kohala better than she loves any other being in the 
world, and that is a discovery.” 

“Her capacity for love, I imagine, is rather varied,” 
said Mr. Porter, with a sneer. “But why should we 
care who or what she is, so long as she answers our 
purpose? On the whole, however, I should be glad to 
know that what you say is true, for in that event we 
can the better use her for our own ends. Now, with 
Your Majesty’s consent, I shall withdraw, for it is pos- 
sible that the dreaded raid on the armory may be made 
to-night, and I must be ready with our friends to see 
that the arms do not fall into the hands of the rebels.” - 

“And you will avoid bloodshed?” she asked. 

“If it can be avoided. Your Majesty.” 

And Mr. Porter left the palace and went over to the 
Government House, where he had an office, but where 
for some weeks there had been but little public business 
transacted. 

He found a dozen men, nearly all “full-bloods” or 
half-breeds, awaiting him, and all looking as if they 
feared something serious might immediately happen if 
any of them spoke above a whisper. 

Lan, the young man who had brought the news of 
Kohala ’s arrival to the palace, was present, and he had 
evidently reported the same thing, for they were dis- 
cussing the matter and speculating as to what it por- 
tended. 

Speaking in their native tongue— a language which 


86 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Porter understood quite as well as he did English — a 
tall, powerfully built Hawaiian, who was employed in 
the Queen’s gardens and whose breath told that he 
had acquired at least one of the white man’s most de- 
structive vices, said : 

‘'Why bother about this youth, Kohala? Why fear 
him when six inches of steel in his heart will put him 
out of the way forever?” and the man, as if to show 
that the blade and the arm to drive it were ready, drew 
from his belt a long two-edged dagger. 

Porter took the weapon, tried the edges against the 
ball of his thumb, as some men try a razor before shav- 
ing, then said : 

‘‘Yes, with that. Hoi, a brave man could do the work; 
but if he was discovered, I wouldn’t care to insure liis 
life, so long as there are Americans in Honolulu. ’ ’ 

‘‘The man brave enough to do the deed will be too 
cunning to be detected; yet there will be a great risk, 
and it should be paid for. What say jmu to that, Eli 
Porter?” 

‘‘I say you are right. But put the weapon away. This 
is not the time or place to talk.” 

The man whom Porter called “Ploi” was sheathing the 
dagger when Captain Featherstone came in, looking very 
much excited. 

‘‘xMr. Porter,” he began, ‘‘I must see you alone and at 
once !” 

r.lr. Porter led the captain into his private office, closed 
the door and asked : 

‘‘Well, captain, what is the new danger?” 

‘ ‘You know that this man whom they call ‘Colonel’ Lor- 
ing, though of late he was known as ‘captain,’ is a trained 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


87 


soldier, a gradua te of the great American military school 
at West Point?” 

“I am aware of that,” replied Porter, “but are you not 
also a trained soldier?” 

“Yes; but my countrymen, the English, will not stand 
by me as the Americans do by Loring. ’ ’ 

“The Americans are powerless, so long as they have 
no arms, and they cannot get arms while a hundred of 
the Queen’s most stalwart adherents are secreted in the 
arsenal.” 

“Yet, Mr. Porter, they have arms!” 

“You are sure?” 

“I am certain.” 

“But, in the name of all that is reasonable, how could 
they get them in Honolulu without my knowledge? I 
have ordered all the stores that sell arms and ammuni- 
tion to be closed.” 

“And they were closed, a fact that made it easier for 
the Americans to get all the pistols and ammunition 
they needed by the back doors. Then, men have been 
going on board the Boston in gangs of late, and it is 
believed they have brought away rifles under their long 
coats. Our Consul is certain that, at a signal to be 
given by the Americans on shore, the captain of the 
Boston will at once land his sailors and marines, seize 
the palace, supplant the Hawaiian flag with that of the 
States and depose Her Majesty by that act.” 

“And think you that the English captain and the 
English Consul will look idly on while that is being 
done?” asked Porter. 

“They cannot help themselves. They dare not pre- 
cipitate a war with the States.” • 

“Then what wmuld you advise?” 


88 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“That you precipitate the inevitable.” 

“In what way?” 

' ‘Show your hand and your force. There are five thou- 
sand men ready to oppose the Americans, and they will 
do it if Kohala can be induced to lead them — ” 

“Which would mean that within twenty-four hours 
Kohala would be proclaimed King of Hawaii.” • 

‘ ‘Better that than an American protectorate. You know 
better than I can tell you that the days of the Queen, as 
a ruler, are numbered. You and all her friends, even 
Her Majesty, will reap the advantage of the course I 
suggest,” said Featherstone, with unusual energy of 
manner. 

“Which is to resign in favor of Kohala?” 

“Exactly.” ' 

“And so ignore the Princess Kaiulani, whom she has 
willed to be her successor?” 

“As the will of the Queen is ignored by even her 
friends it is better that she should make a virtue of 
a necessity. The course I propose means success; any 
other course is ruin. ’ ’ 

“But could we get Kohala to agree to this?” asked 
Porter, evidently impressed by the other’s words and 
manner. 

“I can promise that.” 

“But why are you so sure?” 

“I know Mrs. Holmes; she is my friend — ” 

“Every man’s friend,” sneered Porter. 

“No, sir!” said Featherstone, hotly. “She is a ladv, 
and has no talent for deceit, any more than she has love 
for the Americans. To keep Hawaii from their grasp 
slie is willing to use to the utmost the power she has 
over Kohala. Whatever she advises he will do.” 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


89 


“The more fool Koliala. But I must have time to think 
over what, you have said. I can do nothing without the 
concurrence of the Queen.” 

“But time is flying. There is not a minute to be lost. 
To-night, if ever, the blow for ascendency must be dealt !” 
said Featherstone, and he enforced his words with em- 
phatic gestures. 

“Good; then you bring me the assurance — and, mark 
you, there must be no doubt about it — that Kohala is 
ready to lead on our side if the Queen resigns in his 
favor, and then I will tell you our decision. At present 
we are beating the wind. Go to Mrs. Holmes at once 
and get her to secure Kohala’s agreement in writing. 
That will settle matters,” and Mr. Porter reopened the 
door leading into the general office. 

Captain Featherstone replaced his hat and started out 
to where a closed carriage awaited him. He was evi- 
dently disappointed and angered at Porter’s seeming in- 
difference. He did not know that Porter clearly un- 
derstood his purpose, and that he was quite as much 
opposed to the rule of the English as he was to that 
of the Americans. 

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver. 

“To Mrs. Holmes’s,” said Featherstone, as he sprang 
into the carriage and closed the door with an angry bang. 


90 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AN EXCITED MEETING. 

It was the middle of the afternoon when Koliala and 
Colonel Ellis took dinner in the cabin. In his anxiety 
to see Marguerite Holmes he would have gone without 
his dinner ; but he had sufficient self-control left, or, at 
least, so he imagined, to keep his feelings from his friend. 

As if reading his thoughts, the colonel said, when they 
rose from the table : 

“You must try to forget your own affairs for the 
present, and come with me to the Hawaiian Hotel. 
Our friends, many of whom have not met you, will be 
there, and let me say that your future success will de- 
I)end on the impression you make, so try and banish 
this lady from your mind for the time being. ’ ’ 

Kohala coughed and nodded to indicate that he fully 
understood what was expected of him and his own in- 
ability,^ to realize it.# 

To “banish this lady from his mind for the time being !“ 
Why, Colonel Ellis might as well have asked him to stop 
breathing for the time being, for the one would have 
been quite as possible as the other. 

He had tried to banish her from his mind, but that 
very effort of will served but to make lier the more 
fixed in ail his thoughts. 

His nature was roma,ntic rather than lieroic, intense 
rather than strong; yet its very weakness \vas due to 
tlie absorbing and engrossing fidelity with whicli he 
clung to the idol of his heart, believing that the wo- 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


91 


man whom he could so love must in every way be 
worthy of his adoration. 

But he could not have felt this love and been incapable 
of jealousy. He was quite prepared to believe in the 
treachery of Captain Featherstone ; but it would have 
been like a knife in the heart even to suspect Marguerite 
Holmes of treason. 

Had he been a white man he would have doubted, 
or at least have investigated on less evidence; but in 
matters where the emotions were concerned he reasoned 
from his hopes, and all the innate impulses of his bar- 
baric descent asserted themselves. 

Without attracting attention he and Colonel Ellis were 
driven to the Hawaiian Hotel, on the broad veranda of 
which they found a number of United States naval 
officers, in white undress uniforms. These gentlemen 
bowed to the colonel, but did not try to stop him, 
though it was evident from the whispering that fol- 
lowed his disappearance with Kohala that they fully 
understood the imrport of his coming. 

Strolling about the ample, palm-shaded grounds there 
were a number of English naval officers in citizen’s 
dress, smoking and chatting as if they had no other 
purpose in mind than to while away the hot hours of 
a tropic afternoon. 

The officers on the veranda and those under the trees 
were most courteous to each other when they met,’and 
when they stopped to chat they discussed everything 
but that which was uppermost in their minds. 

The most optimistic could not hide from himself the 
fact that, within the week, the guns of their respective 
ships might be blazing into each other^ in the harbor of 
Honolulu. 


92 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


The Council of Public Safety was in session in tlie 
upper room before referred to, and it was guarded by 
armed men within and without. 

Although well known to these guards, the rules of the 
Council were so strict that the colonel could not be ad- 
mitted till he had given the pass-word and countersign 
and vouched for the loyalty of his companion. 

There were fully thirty earnest white men present, 
and, at sight of the colonel and Kohala, they rose to 
their feet and applauded, to show their respect and 
delight. 

Kohala was personally introduced to all the men 
present whom he did not already know, and then lie 
was given a seat beside the colonel, who took the pre- 
siding chair. 

Mr. George King, who had been acting as president 
during the colonel’s absence, saluted, and said : 

“Colonel Loring was about to give us a report of the 
situation from the standpoint of a soldier ; if our presi- 
dent offers no objections to this, it might be well for 
him to go on, for it is evident to all of us that the 
crisis for which we have been preparing for weeks 
has at length come.” 

“Colonel Loring’s report will be in order,” said the 
president, and he stilled the hum of voices by rapping 
with his gavel on the long table about which they were 
gathered. • 

Colonel Loring was in citizen’s dress, but a uniform 
was not necessary to make him look what he was, every 
inch the soldier. 

Rising, and occasionally refreshing his memory by 
reference to a note-book which he held open. Colonel 
Ijoring said : 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


93 


“Mr. President, and gentlemen of the Council of Public 
Safety, it is hardly necessary for me to assure you tliat, 
since you placed me in command of the Provisional troops 
of Hawaii, I have done everything in my power to per- 
fect the organization and to make it efficient.” 

He was interrupted here by applause, none the less 
hearty for its being suppressed. 

“We have at present about five* hundred men, fairly 
well armed and drilled, and twice that number who are 
ready to join us as soon as we need them. We need 
them now; but, without arms, they would be in the 
way and would only serve to add to our loss in the 
event of a conflict with the forces of the Queen.” 

“Where is the arsenal?” asked an impulsive French- 
man. 

“Still in the hands of the authorities, or, I should say, 
it is in the keeping of the creatures of the Queen,” re- 
plied Colonel Loring. 

“Then why not take it into our keeping at once?” 

This suggestion met with the same suppressed ap- 
plause, and the men about the table nodded their ap- 
proval. 

“It is of that I would speak,” said Colonel Loring. 

“Go on ! Go on !” came from all parts of the room. 

“Our enemies are watching us — ” 

“We know it!” 

“And if we do not seize the arsenal this very night 
and so precipitate the conflict, then the other party will 
do it, and they will be in a position to defy us.” 

“Wliat force guards the arsenal?” asked Mr. King. 

“It is supposed to be watched by some half-dozen sol- 
diers ; but, as a matter of fact. Minister Porter has been 
filling the place every night with a hundred or more 


94 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


men. A hundred such men, if properly approached, 
can offer no very serious resistance; but if five thou- 
sand men"are gathered there it will be very different. I 
have learned the signal which the enemy propose to give 
when they wish to assemble their forces.” 

“Wliat is it?” asked a dozen men. 

“A beacon fire is to be lit at midnight on the crest of 
the Punch Bowl, For the past v/eek but few of the 
Queen’s adherents who are able to bear arms have gone 
to bed before morning,” said Colonel Lpring, referring 
for confirmation to his note-book. 

“ Why can we not have a force at the Punch Bowl to 
prevent the beacon?” asked the president. 

“I have taken care of that,” replied Colonel Boring, 
quietly. “Every night, under a cool, brave officer, a 
band of our best men have been concealed on the crest 
of the Punch Bowl. If the fire were started it would 
be at once extinguished, and rockets would announce to 
us tha^fact and the opening of the contest.” 

“In such an event,” said- the president, “what means 
have you taken, here in the city, to announce to our 
friends that the struggle has begun?” 

“We have men stationed in all the belfries of the 
churches and on all the towers of the engine-houses. As 
soon as the rockets are seen the bells will announce the 
fact to our friends and they will assemble at places decided 
on, and under leaders who have my instructions as to 
what is to be done. I have taken every precaution, and 
I think you can trust me,” said Colonel Boring, with the 
modest confidence that is ever the characteristic of in- 
nate military ability . " 

With the calmness but rapidity of action that dis- 
tinguishes veterans under fire the Council hurried 


KOHALA' OF HAWAII. 


95 


through a great deal of business, and at its conclusion 
every one present began to shout : 

' ‘Kohala ! Kohala ! Kohala ! ” * 

The young man had attended public meetings before, 
and so knew what was expected of him. In all that 
had been done and was being done by the men present 
he was in perfect sympathy ; yet one may have a pro- 
found sympathy without being able, publicly, to give 
his reasons for the same. 

Mastering his nervousness with an evident effort, 
Kohala rose to his feet, and, steadying himself by hold- 
ing on to the chair on which he had been seated, he 
said, in the clear, melodious accents that were not his 
least charm : 

“Gentlemen, I am a Hawaiian by birth and bloody, but 
I trust that I am more than that, and that is, a man who 
is neither afraid nor ashamed to greet every other man, 
without regard to his race or nationality, as a brother.” 

A cheer, that could not be restrained and that must 
have been heard in all parts of the hotel, greeted this 
fine sentiment. 

“I have neither the experience nor the wisdom to ad- 
dress men so much older than myself,” he continued, 
“but I am not so dull as not to understand my country’s 
present unhappy situation. Tkanks to Colonel Ellis, I 
have been opposed to hereditary monarchs ever since 
I began to reason. This I say, though well aware that 
my own prominence in this movement is entirely due 
to the fact that, in line of descent, I am the rightful 
heir to the throne of Hawaii.” 

Again the applause broke out, and admiration glowed 
in the eyes of the men who heard the young orator. He 
went on : ' 


96 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“My rights to the throne I shall never press. I be- 
lieve that ail rulers should be elected, and Hawaii must 
be no exception. To achieve this end, command my 
fortune and my life ; but, gentlemen, there is one thing 
you must not insist on.” • 

“Wliat is that?” asked a member. 

“That I shall help you to establish here a free repub- 
lic, and that I shall inaugurate that republic by marrying 
for reasons of State.” 

This produced some laughter and many questioning 
looks. 

“An alliance between myself and the daughter of the 
chief of Hawaii might be good policy, as kings under- 
stand it. Mark you, the daughter of the chief is far 
too good for me; but you should not insist on treating 
me like the heir to a throne by selecting a wife for me, 
when you tell me I am to be a free citizen in a free 
land. My friends, that is all I have to say.” 

The applause broke out again when Kohala sat down, 
and, while it was evident that a majority of those pres- 
ent indorsed his views, it was equally evident that all 
were disappointed, for the allegiance of the chief Keona 
who was not a republican, was essential to the success of 
their plans. 

Colonel Ellis admired the evidence of ability shown by 
Kohala, though disappointed, and comforted himself 
with the belief that the young man would change his 
mind as to the daughter of the chief when he learned 
for himself that the woman to whom he had given his 
heart was entirely unworthy. 

• the time the Council had ended its session night 
had come to Honolulu. 

Colonel Ellis told Kohala that they were both to re- 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


97 


main at tfee Ha waiian Hotel, so as to be in a good posi- 
tion to receive reports and to direct affairs. 

“I shall trust you to direct,” said Kohala, with spirit: 
“that is the provence of mature men; but if there is to 
be action and danger I should blush for myself if I did 
not share it. ’ ’ 

This was said in the presence of Colonel Loring, who, 
with Kohala and the colonel, was the only person present 
in the latter’s room. 

“Can you ride well?” asked Colonel Loring. 

“I should; I began as a boy in the mountains of Hti- 
waii, and I have never allowed my skill to lapse for want 
of use.” replied Kohala. 

“Then.” said the colonel, “I shall feel glad and hon- 
ored if you will serve on my staff to-night.” 

“But,” joined in Colonel Ellis, “there may be danger.” 

“If there were no danger,” said Kohala, proudly, “I 
should not care to serve.” 

“Spoken like a true soldier,” said the gallant young 
leader of the Provisional army, as he shook Kohala ’s 
hand. “We can find plenty of men to sport uniforms 
and pose for the admiration of ladies when there is no 
danger ; but the man who faces a danger for principle’s 
sake — and the danger’s sake — is a brother after my own 
heart.” 

“I shall not interfere with Kohala’s purpose,” said 
Colonel Ellis. “But you younger men must not forget 
that I. too, am a soldier, and so distinguish between duty 
and daring. The leader who unnecessarily exposes him- 
self is not brave, but reckless. A general, unless the 
case be desperate and his example needed, should not 
lead a charge. The life of Kohala is of more impor- 
tance to Ids country than that of a common soldier,” 


98 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Still the common soldier who risks his life for liberty 
is quite as noble a man as the general who commands 
him. For one night, at least, I shall be a common sol- 
dier, and subject to Colonel Loring’s command,” said 
Kohala, with an earnestness that had in it nothing of 
the braggart. 

The three men had dinner together in Colonel Ellis’s 
private sitting-room; but not one of them seemed to 
enjoy the meal, so absorbed were they in the events 
which the night was to bring forth. 

Colonel Loring had a horse provided for Kohala, and 
he saw that there were pistols in the holsters and a 
good supply of cartridges in the young man’s belt. 

They bade good-by to Colonel Ellis, then rode down 
toward the race-track, picking up on the way other 
mounted men and many men on foot, all bound for the 
rendezvous where they had been assembling since the 
trouble began. 

The stars were hidden by black clouds, as if the ele- 
ments were in sympathy with the work to be done in 
Honolulu that night. 

There were but few lights visible in private houses 
there were but few people on the streets, and a gloom 
that could be felt hung over “the Queen City of the 
Pacific.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII.^ 


99 


z' 

CHAPTEK XTII. 


THE FIRST BLOVr IS STRUCK. 

There were guards all along the road to the race- 
track ; but vigilant thougli these men were, they could 
not prevent the silent, swarming spies of the Queen 
from watching and reporting on their movements. 

To-night there was less secrecy than heretofore. Both 
sides felt that the time for action had come, and that 
the next t wen t}^- four hours would settle whether Hawaii 
was to be free or to remain under the arbitrary dominion 
of a monarch who, of her own volition, or through the 
ill-advised inlluence of some of her ministers, had chosen 
to ignore the rights of her foreign-born subjects and to 
trample under foot the accepted constitution of all her 
people. 

ToKohala, who kept by Colonel Boring’s side, it seemed 
as if the young leader had entirely changed his char- 
acter since they rode into the darkness from the Ha- 
waiian Hotel. 

Ordinarily, Colonel Loring was the embodiment of 
courtesy; indeed, he was distinguished for his easy, 
graceful manners and the entire calm and self-posses- 
sion of his bearing; but while the latter had not left 
him, he was now quick and peremptory in his man- 
ner. His voice had in it a ring that insured obedience, 
and his every act told of a brain-directed energy that 
stirred his men and filled them with confidence,- for 
soldiers, in or on the eve of action, ever admire a com- 
mander who can command. 

Kohala expected that the colonel would form his men 


]00 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


into companies and march them directly down on the 
arsenal and storm it, if it were not at once surrendered ; 
but in this he was disappointed. 

\ 

Through a swarm of orderlies who stood ready to do 
his bidding the colonel assembled all his subordinate 
officers, and, as in the darkness he called each man by 
name, he gave him his special orders and saw before he 
retired that he understood them without fear of mis- 
take. 

As each subordinate was given instructions and told 
where he must assemble his men in the city, and what 
he was to do when the bells pealed forth their signal, 
he started off promptly to enforce the command. 

In less than half an hour after their reaching the 
rendezvous, so perfect had been all the preliminaries, the 
organized troops, in small bodies and by different routes, 
were marching into the city. 

“Now we are ready,” said the colonel to Kohala, “let 
us ride back.” 

“But there are only a few men with us,” said Kohala, 
as he looked about at the half-dozen silent, mounted men 
who remained behind. 

“We have all we need now,” said the colonel, calmly ; 
“when we need more, depend on it they will be forth- 
coming.” 

They turned back to the city, the glow of whose 
lamps looked blood-red on the lowering clouds. 

The other horsemen fell in behind, but not a word 
was spoken. The time for talk was past, and the hour 
for action had come. 

Tlie horsemen halted in a churchyard back of ’the 
palace and not a pistol-shot from the Hawaiian Hotel. 


KOHAl.A OF HAWAII. 


101 


Here all dismounted, and they found men awaiting to 
hold their horses. 

“Keep by my side, Kohala,’’ said Colonel Loring, as 
a man came up with a dark-lantern and asked : 

“Are you ready to go up, sir?” 

“I am,” said the colonel; “lead the way, Phipps.’’ 

The man with the lantern unlocked the church door, 
and, when the colonel, Kohala and the two men wlio 
were to act as a signal corps had entered, the door was 
closed again and the slide of the lantern thrown back, 
so as to show the winding stairs leading up to the steeple 
and belfry. 

The steeple ended in a tower in which hung a bell, 
and as soon as the party reached the little platform at 
the end of the last stairs the light was hidden again. 

Koiiala looked over the rail, and the gas lamps and 
electric lights revealed the city at his feet. By the glare 
of the lamps before the Parliament House he could see 
the heroic gold and bronze statue of his famed ancestor, 
King Kamehameha, and his heart was stirred to emula- 
tion of that great chieftain’s deeds. 

The palace seemed to be wrapped in darkness; even 
the two lamps at the great entrance gate burned with a 
duller glow than usual. 

The Hawaiian Hotel was, in contrast with its stygian 
surroundings, fairly ablaze with light, and Kohala could 
see tlie silhouettelike figures of men moving swiftly 
across the illuminated spaces. 

Down by the piers and out in the harbor he saw the 
colored lights that marked the port and starboard sides 
of warships and merchant ships at anchor ; and far out 
beyond all these he saw the phosphorescent glow of the 
breakers on the barrier reef and he heard the incessant 


102 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


and rhythmic booming that followed their recession and 
advance. 

After this survey he faced to the north. In that di- 
rection lay the Punch Bowl, from which the expected 
signal was to come, and in which direction every face 
was turned. 

But absorbing though the situation was, Kohala could 
not remain indifferent, even under such circumstances, 
to the one object that he could not banish from his mind. 
Soldiers on the battlefield, with the thunder of guns and 
the crimson carnage of death about them, have been car- 
ried in imagination back to the days of their boyhood, 
when they gathered wild flowers in the woods or fol- 
lowed the droning wild bee to her hive ; but there was ' 
nothing so startlingly psychological in the thoughts of 
Kohala. 

“If it were day,” so he reasoned, “I could see the cot- 
tage where she lives.” She was to him so bright, so self- 
luminous, that he felt pained to think that she must be 
in darkness, ‘for he could not see the glimmer of a light 
in or about the place where she lived. 

From his reverie — and in love reveries time flies fast 
and unnoticed — he was roused by the low hum of the 
voices about him, and he heard Colonel Loring saying 
to the man with the dark-lantern : 

“Phipps, have you a watch?” 

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. 

“Step down where the light cannot be seen and let me 
know what time it is.” 

Phipps descended the steps some distance, a flash of 
light came up and vanished, then he reappeared and 
said : 

“It is just half -past eleven, sir.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


103 


‘■'Another long lialf-hour to wait,” said a man beside 
the colonel. 

“Have patience,” was the young soldier’s laughing 
response. “You may have more to do than you can 
well attend to before the night is over.” 

“Ay, faith,” said Phipps, who spoke with the accent 
of an Irishman, “and it may be that the man who’ll lis^e 
to see daylight may find himself dead.” 

Another man was about to speak, but checked himself, 
for suddenly a light flashed out from the dome of the 
palace and it lit up the standard of Hawaii. 

Tliis was unusual, for it had been the custom to lower 
the flag with the sunset gun, and Colonel Loring was 
more than ever confident that the Queen’s adlierents 
were on the alert, and that the hour for action had 
come. 

Following the appearance of the flag above the palace 
a cheer, or, rather, a shrill yell, came up from the streets, 
and the pounding of galloping hoofs could be heard. 

At this juncture a man, who had made his way up the 
dark stairs, found Colonel Loring and said ; 

“I am ordered to report, sir, that there is a great crowd 
of natives gathering about the palace.” 

“We must expect that. How about the arsena.r:'” 
asked the colonel. 

“There is no change there, sir.” 

- “Very well. Report to our friends to stand ready for 
the signal. They will hear it and see it within ten min- 
utes.” 

The man ciept down again, and the quick fall of his 
feet was still echoing in the steeple when an exclama- 
tion burst from the men whose faces had been peering 


104 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


northward for what seemed to them an interminable 
time. 

“They’ve lit the beacon !’’ cried one. 

From the head of the Punch Bowl a fountain of flame 
leaped into the sky, transforming the picturesque hill 
into a volcano, as it had been of old. 

“Make ready the rockets, Phipps,” said the coloneb 
his voice as calm as if there were no crisis at hand. 

“All ready, sir,” was the response. 

Higher and higher rose tlie flames from the crest o/ 
the Punch Bowl, and again the shrill cheer came up from 
the direction of the palace. 

“It’s gone again !” cried a number of men, unable to 
suppress their excitement, for the fountain of flame died 
out as suddenly as it had appeared. 

“Have the matches ready, Phipps.” 

“Ready they are, sir.” 

A few seconds of intense darkness over the Punch 
Bowl, then, like a pencil of light drawn swiftly against 
the black background of the night, a rocket rose up to- 
ward the lowering clouds, curved gracefully downward, 
then exploded, and was followed by a shower of globes, 
red, white and blue. 

Two more rockets followed in quick succession. Then 
Phipps, under the colonel’s orders, struck a match, and 
three rockets, with scarcely an interval of time between 
their appearance, shot up from the belfry and exploded 
directly over the palace. 

“The bell, Phipps!” 

The bell began to clang at once. A deep, hoarse cheer 
rang up from the streets. From tower and steeple other 
bells clanged out the alarm, and down by the shore there 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


105 


was seen a flasli, followed by the ominous booming of a 
gun. 

“Now for the arsenal ! Keep close beside me, Kohala !” 
said the colonel, as, with lantern held high above his 
head, for there was no longer need for disguise, he led 
tlie way to the ground, while the bell kept up its clang- 
ing as if it had gone mad or was being rung by a mad- 
man. 

“Keep the horses here; we shall not need them at 
present,” said the colonel, to the men waiting below. 

There was no excitement in his voice and no sign of 
nervousness in his manner, yet Kohala, who kept close 
to his side as he ran for the arsenal, could see by the 
light of tlie lamps past which they dashed that there 
was an awful, an unconquerable earnestness in the young 
soldier’s face. 

There was not a policeman to be seen. At the sight of 
the rockets from the steeple and the first clanging of the 
bells the bravest of them had vanished. 

Bugle calls and hoarse commands down the side streets 
where the volunteers had been impatiently waiting, the 
quick tramp, as of trained soldiers, the galloping of order- 
lies and the frightened cries of women and children in 
the houses, told that the revolution, so long dreaded by 
the people of Honolulu, had come. 

Colonel Loring took a position near the arsenal, but 
Kohala noticed that, since leaving the steeple, he had 
not issued an order, nor was there any occasion for his 
doing so. His orders were given in advance, and so per- 
fect were all the details that his subordinates promptly 
marched their men to the i)laces that had been assigned 
them, and there halted till they sliould hear the bugles 
sound for the assault on the arsenal. 


106 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Although the Queen’s adherents had long been expect- 
ing this very thing it came upon them with all the force 
of a surprise, for their work was checked in its very in- 
ception by Colonel Loring’s signal corps. 

Had the beacon been permitted to burn on the hill for 
twenty minutes, as its designers intended, the native 
force and the foreigners who took the side of the Queen 
would have rallied at the palace and marched at once 
on the arsenal. But the extinguishing of the light and 
the red glare of the rockets, with the answering rockets 
from the steeple, and the clanging of the bells, with the 
sudden movement of large bodies of armed men along 
the streets, had a most demoralizing effect on the men 
who, but one short hour before, were so confident of 
success that they expected to see every objectionable 
American on the warship Boston the following morn- 
ing. 

With his drawn sword grasped firmly in his right 
hand Colonel Loring, now reasonably well assured that 
he was master of the situation, advanced to the main 
door of the arsenal and knocked for admission. 

After waiting long enough for a response without re- 
ceiving any, he rapped again, saying, at the same time : 

“Open at once, or I shall break in the door.” 

“Who is there?” asked a man in the voice of a native. 

“II” was the response. 

“Who are you?” 

“Colonel Arthur Loring, of the Provisional Army.” 

“I know no such man nor no such army.” 

“Then you had better make our acquaintance. Come, 
my man, I am in no mood for parleying.” 

“But I was placed here with my men to protect the 
Queen’s property,” said the man. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


107 


“There is no longer a Queen in Honolulu,” answered 
the colonel. 

“Where is Her Majesty?” 

“There is no such person as Her Majesty. Will you 
open?” and the colonel beat on the door with the hilt of 
his sword, while a dozen brawny men appeared witli a 
beam which they proposed to use as a battering ram. 

“Hold up ! we surrender !” cried the man from within. 

Following this, lights were seen inside the building, the 
massive door was opened and the native soldiers and a 
number of natives with a few white men, ail armed, came 
out, one at a time, and by the light of the improvised 
torches of Loring’s men they laid down their weapons 
and were placed under guard. 

Again a bugle sounded, and the company that had been 
detailed to take charge of the arsenal after its surrender 
marclied in while the others fell into line like veterans, 
and, with the colonel at their head, advanced quickly 
toward the palace, not many hundred yards away. 

There 'svas no longer a guard before the entrance. The 
lights were extinguished in the great hall, and a timid 
Chinese gardener met the colonel at the steps and said : 

“The Queen, she not here.” 

“Where is she?” asked the colonel. 

“She go way.” 

“Where to?” 

“Me not know,” whined the man. 

“Go up,” said the colonel, to one of his men, “and take 
down the flag of Hawaii.” 


108 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE QUEEN STILL DEFIANT. 

One thing that has favored the continuance of heredi- 
tary rulers is the fact that they have been credited with 
qualities which they ought to have had, but which they 
rarely, if ever, possessed. 

Queen Liliuokalani might have urged her sex as a 
reason to account for her want of physical courage 
were it not that in times of great danger, and even in 
the face of death, women who were not queens have 
shown a nerve and undaunted front such as the bravest 
man could scarcely hope to emulate. 

The Queen of Hawaii committed the fatal blunder of 
underestimating the force and resolution of her oppo- 
nents, and of overestimating the strength and fidelity of 
her adherents. 

It has been said that any man will make a good sol- 
dier if well trained and properly led; but, with the 
exception of the handful of palace guards, whose occu- 
pation hitherto had been entirely ornamental, the 
Queen’s followers were untrained, and, still worse, she 
had little politicians for leaders instead of resolute sol- 
diers when the revolution came which she had herself 
invoked. 

It was the belief of Her Majesty and her friends that 
there would be fighting at the arsenal and in and about 
the palace ; so, as a matter of prudence, she went in dis- 
guise to the house of a friend a short distance away, and 
there confidently awaited the outcome of the struggle. 

It had always been the custom, as with more power- 
ful monarchs, to keep the royal standard floating over 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


109 


the palace in the daytime when the Queen was present. 
It was, no doubt, to create the impression of her pres- 
ence after she had fled that some of her foolish friends 
raised the flag at midnight and illuminated it with 
lanterns for the delusion of the people— but it failed 
of its purpose, if such was the intent. 

From first to last it was never the purpose of the 
Council of Public Safety to injure the person of the 
Queen, nor, indeed, to shed a drop of blood unless its 
army was assailed and forcedly resisted in the perform- 
ance of duties demanded by the crisis. 

In addition to the gallant Colonel Loring’s personal 
feelings in the matter the Council had commanded him 
to protect, at every hazard, the person of the Queen ; so 
that she might have remained in the palace with per- 
fect safety to herself and her household servants. 

The Queen was anxiously awaiting the lighting of the 
beacon fire on the Punch Bowl when Lan, the young 
man who had brought her the news of Kohala’s arrival 
with Colonel Ellis, came into the darkened sitting-room 
in the house to which she had fled and said : 

“Your Majesty, it is as we have feared, Kerala is 
with the insurgents to-night.” 

“How know you this?” she demanded, in an angry 
voice. 

“I saw him myself riding out with the man they call 
Colonel Loring to the rendezvous at the race- track.” 

The Queen rose, and raising her arms tragically, she 
cried out: 

“Kohala is rushing to his own ruin fast enough; but 
if I had true friends about me he would not be per^ 
mitted to torment me in this way.” 


110 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


She waved her hand toward the door, and Lan van- 
islied. 

At the same time that she left the palace for this liouse 
the Queen sent for Marguerite Holmes, the messenger 
jiaving orders to fetch the lady back with him. 

Lan had just taken his departure when another tap 
was heard at the door, and Mrs. Holmes, very ashy and 
with a pained, anxious look in her eyes, yet entirely 
self-possessed in her manner, came in. 

Hitherto the Queen had been effusive in her demon- 
strations on meeting the little Englishwoman : but now 
the savage, usually dormant in her passionate nature, 
asserted itself. 

As if talking to a servant with whom she had good 
cause to be angered, the Queen said : 

“I sent for you this afternoon; why did you not come 
to me?” 

“I was absent at the time,” said Mrs. Holmes, de- 
murely, 

‘•'But you found my note awaiting you?” 

The Queen plumped into the chair from which she 
had risen; but, although etiquette required that her 
visitor could not imitate the royal conduct without the 
royal command, Mrs. Holmes sat quietly down and 
said, with well-bred calmness ; 

“I was not at all well when I got home, and so I lay 
down.” 

“But- you first read my note?” said the Queen, iiotiy. 

“Your Majesty, I did not read your note.” 

“Pray why not?” 

“Because it was not handed me till I got up.” 

“But you have a servant?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Ill 


“And she kneAv the note was from me?” 

“Only that it was from the palace.” 

“But that should mean me! You never had a friend 
at the palace but myself, and now you haven’t one in it 
or out of it,” said the Queen, hot with anger. 

“I am sorry if I have angered Your Majesty,” said 
Marguerite Holmes, rising with quiet dignity and add- 
ing: “You see I have obeyed your second request. Is 
it to pour your wrath upon me when others have ex- 
cited it that you have sent for me?” 

“No, it is not.” 

“May I ask the wishes of Your Majesty?” said the 
little woman, choking down a sob, “for I am still far 
from strong.” 

“Sit down !” 

The Queen waved her hand to the chair from which 
Marguerite had risen. She sat down, interlocked her 
thin fingers, as was her habit when perplexed, and 
Avaited. 

“Do you know,” said the Queen, in a lower if not a 
milder tone, “that Kohala is now in Honolulu?” 

“I learned it not an hour ago,” replied Marguerite. 

“From himself?” 

“No, Your Majesty; from Captain Featherstone. ” 

“Captain Featherstone?” * 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

“And you permit him to visit you still?” 

“I cannot help it. Your Majesty.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because he does not know my secret.” 

“Then he treats you as a lover?” 

“As a friend.” 

“Friend!” sneered the Queen. “I am not a fool! I 


112 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


have never liked your friend, for I know him to be 
what many people say you are.” 

“May I ask Your Majesty what that is?” 

“An adventurer!” hissed the Queen. 

Marguerite made an effort as if to rise. At the sound 
of the word “adventurer” she started like a spirited 
horse at the touch of the unaccustomed spur; but slie 
restrained herself, though she could not trust herself to 
speak. 

The Queen half closed her eyes, till they looked like 
t\vo dark luminous slits, and the lieavy lips were com- 
pressed, as if she were making an effort to control her- 
self. At length she asked : 

“Do you not think it strange that Kohala should come 
to Honolulu without at once calling on you?” 

“In these troublesome times, A^our Majesty, I do not 
know what to think,” was the response, and Margue- 
rite Holmes pressed her hands to her eyes and hastily 
withdrew them. 

“Do you still believe he loves you?” 

“I can see no reason for his changing,” said Margue- 
rite, the trembling hands again i^ressed to her eyes. 

“A'oung men often have strange fancies, which they 
imagine to be love. ” 

“So I have heard, A'our Majest}^” 

“Mrs. Holmes?” 

“A'es, Your Majesty.” 

“A^ou must find Kohala at once and fetch him to me.” 

“But if I cannot do so?” 

“Cannot! Amu must, or — ” 

The Queen hesitated, a,nd the slits grew narrower and 
the compression of the lips gave her a fierce expression. 

“Or what. A’our Alajestj'?” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


113 


“Or I shall give your secret to the world. Now, find 
him and fetch him.” • 

The Queen stood up, and Marguerite Holmes rose with 
an effort and tottered from the room. 

As if her departure were the signal, rockets went 
whizzing into the air as soon as she had gained the 
street and all the church bells and fire bells began to 
clang. 

Marguerite let fall her veil, while all about her she* 
could hear the thunder of flying hoofs and the tramping 
of men. Shrill yells in the distance and hoarse cheers 
near by indicated to her the whereabouts of the rival 
factions. 

Running rather than walking, and avoiding the illu- 
minated places, Marguerito Holmes succeeded in reach- 
ing her cottage. 

She found Clem awaiting her, and looking, as she 
always did, as stolid and sleepless as a sphynx. 

“Get me a little wine, Clem!” gasped Marguerite, as 
she dropped into a chair and let her arms fall helplessly 
by her side. 

Without any expression of sympathy in voice, face 
or manner Clem brought her mistress a glass of sherry, 
waited till she had sipped it down, then took the glass, 
and, turning it round between her thumb and finger, 
said, in her low, mechanical voice : 

“He’s been here to see you, mem.” 

“Whom do you mean, Clem?” and Marguerite looked 
up with more interest. 

“The young, dark-complexioned prince.” 

“Kohala?” 

“Yes, mem, and he was rare disappointed not to find 
you.” 


114 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Which way did he go?” 

Ill iier anxiety Marguerite rose to her feet and began 
putting on the gloves she had taken off. 

“You told me not to say where you’d gone, mem, so, 
when he asked, I said I didn’t know.’’ 

“Y/hat else did he say?’’ 

“He asked if Captain Featherstone was in the iiabit 
of coming here very often.” 

“And what did you reply?” 

“I said not too often to wear out his welcome, for iie 
was a great friend and a countryman of yours.” 

“You should not have told him anything about it,” 
said Marguerite, a faint flush coming to her cheeks. 

“But it was the truth, and I could not help it. Oh, 
he’s a rare fine gentleman, he is, even if his skin is dark, 
for he slipped a bit of American goold into my hand. ’ ’ 

‘'And that was all lie said?” 

“Every word, mem.” 

“And he didn’t say when he’d return?” 

“No.” 

“Nor where he was to be found?” 

“Not a word of anything like that, mem, I assure 
you, ’ ’ said Clem, as she backed to the door. 

As Marguerite made no effort to detain her Clem kept 
up her backing till she had passed the door and closed it 
behind her. 

8Iie \yent to the little dining-room, but before setting- 
down the glass in whicli she had brought the sherry, 
she helped herself to two glasses, draining each at a 
gulpj and muttering to herself as she did so: “Ah, me ! 
this is a sad, sad, wicked world, and every one in it 
seems to be workin’ for himself and not think in’ of nd> 
one else.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


115 


The person overhearing this might be led [to believe 
that Clem was herself a praiseworthy exception to the 
selfishness peculiar to all the rest of humanity ; but, as 
will be shown, siie was not beyond temptation, particu- 
larly when it came in the form of gold, for which she 
had the universal human fondness. 

Waiting in the darls:, for she had extinguished the 
light in her own room, till assured that her mistress was 
in bed, if not asleep, Clem crept softly out through the 
window that opened on the piazza, then, with a cloak 
about her gaunt form and a man’s hat pulled down over 
her eyes so that her sex was disguised in the indistinct 
light, she made her way to the rear of the Hawaiian 
Hotel. 

On nearing the place she slackened her pace and moved 
with more caution. At length a dark figure rose up be- 
^ fore her, but, instead of being startled, she asked, with- 
out a tremor in the wooden voice : 

“Is that you, Mr. Phipps?” 

“Faith, me darlint,” was the laughing response of the 
man who had guided Colonel Loring into the steeple, 
“it’s mesel’ and no one else. And it’s tired enough I am 
waitin’ here for you.” 

Phipps gave her his arm, led her into the hotel by the 
back way , and so conducted her to the chamber where 
the Council was in session. 


116 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER XV. 

WHERE IS KOHALA? 

Colonel Ellis, with a half-dozen friends, was in the 
room in which' the -Council held its meetings, awaiting 
the outcome of the night’s work, of which, judging by 
tlie confident expression on the faces of ail the men 
present, no one seemed to entertain any doubt. 

Every few minutes a messenger came in to report the 
progress of the men under Colonel Loring, and each of 
these confirmed the hope that the revolution would be 
as bloodless as it was wide-reaching in its effects. 

Escorting Clem, Phipps, who had been elected a mes- 
senger of the Council, gave the pass-word at the guarded 
door, vouched for the fidelity of the strangely attired 
woman and entered. 

As soon as the door was closed behind her Clem re- 
movetl her hat from her stringy-looking head, threw her 
cloak over her arm, man-fashion, and bowed on rather 
stiff hinges to the gentleman at the head of the table. 

The colonel had evidently met this strange woman be- 
fore, for he nodded to her, just as if she were a man with 
whom he was forced to have unpleasant dealings, and, 
pointing to a chair at his left hand, said : 

“Glad to see you are still alive, Mrs. Clem. Sit down, 
and tell me if this uproar has excited your nerves.” 

“I ain’t got no narves,” she said, grimly, whereat the 
men about the table laughed. ; >;' 

“That is the one thing”— the colonel was going to add, 
“and the onlj^ thing,” but he did not— “that gives you 
an enviable pre-eminence over all your sex with wliom 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


117 


I have the honor to be acquainted. Nerve, Mrs. Ciem, 
is an excellent thing in man or woman; but Heaven 
preserve me from people with nerves. Now, I sup- 
pose that little splinter of a woman, Mrs. Holmes, is 
just one bundle of parchment-covered nerves.” 

“It isn’t that, sir; it’s want of strength,” said Clem. 
“But as to gettin’ upset when there’s trouble on I Avill 
say that she’s just about as cool a hand as I ever met 
up with. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Mrs. Clem, she is no doubt a very remarkable 
woman; but where is she now?” asked Colonel Ellis. 

“At home and in bed, though I can’t think she’s so 
downright cool and calm as to sleep such a night as 
this,” said Clem. 

“And she called on the Queen to-night?” 

“She did, sir.” 

“How did she seem when she came back?” 

“She was right up and down rattled, and no mistake, 
sir.” 

“Did she have any callers during her absence?” 

“Only one, sir.” 

“Who was he?” 

“The handsome young dark gent.” 

“What! Kohala?” 

“Yes, sir, that’s his name, though I never can recall 
it when it’s wanted.” 

“When was he there?” asked the colonel, his face 
growing veiy serious. 

“Just ’bout half an hour after the bells began to ring.” 

“How long did he stay?” 

“Only while I was tellin’ him that IVfrs. Holmes had 
gone out.” 

“Did you tell him where she had gone?” 


IIS 


KOHAi.A OF HAWAII. 


“No, sir.” 

“But, of course, you knew?” 

“I did, sir.” 

“And Mrs. Holmes seemed very much disappointed 
wlien she got back and learned that the young man 
had been there?” 

“Yes, sir, she was that bad cut up that I had to fetch 
her some wine to keep her from swoonin’ right off,” said 
C’lem. 

Colonel Ellis stroked his foreliead like a man mucli 
perplexed, then he called to Phipps : 

“Find Colonel Loring at once, and ask him if he has 
seen Kohala within the last hour or if he knows where 
he is. ” 

Phipps saluted and hurried out, and the colonel, after 
a further talk with Clem, gave her some money and 
dismissed her. 

Within ten minutes Phipps, who had met Colonel Lor- 
ing on his way to the hotel, returned with that gentle- 
man. 

“Why,” said Colonel Loring, when he heard that 
Kohala had so recentl)^ called on Mrs. Holmes, “when 
we reached the palace I gave him a message for you. 
He must have passed Mrs. Holmes on the way thither 
and stopped in, for I recall that as I passed the cottage 
a short time before there were lights burning within.” 

“Well, he did not report to me,” said the colonel, 
“and, knowing him as I do, I am sure that he would 
have done so if something serious had not befallen him.” 

“H(4 was armed and knew how to care for himself,” 
Colonel Loring ventured to say, though he clearly sa\v 
that this supposition did not elminate the element of 
danger from the question. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


119 


“If a man were as strong as a giant and armed to the 
teeth,” said Colonel Ellis, as if thinking aloud, “he 
might still be as a child before the dagger of an assa*s- 
sin.” 

“I think there is no need to be alarmed; still, if you 
say so, I shall have a search instituted at once,” said 
Colonel Loring. 

“I certainly do say so.” Then, rising to his feet. 
Colonel Ellis added: “If any harm has befallen Kohala 
I shall demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a 
tooth, if I have to shed royal blood in retaliation !” 

Colonel Loring saluted, and went out, followed by 
Phipps. 

The young soldier was not at all to blame for the ab- 
sence of Kohala. It was to give him something to do 
as a member of his staff that he sent him with a mes- 
sage to the chief of the Council ; and if Kohala stopped 
on the way, as he certainly seemed to have done, the act 
was in direct violation of his duty as a volunteer soldier, 
and such he certainly was for the time being. 

As they hurried to tlie arsenal, about which most of 
the soldiers were now encamped, Phipps proved to be 
the most dismal kind of a Job’s comforter. 

“Do you know, colonel,” he said, “what I’ve just been 
thinkin’?” 

“What?” snapped the colonel, who was too busy with 
his own thoughts to care for those of any one else. 

“That some of these Yalta Kanakas is might^r treacher- 
ous.” 

“So are some white men.” 

“Thrue for you, colonel; but most white min would 
give a fellow-mortal a chance to defend himseP. Be- 


120 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


gorra, I never did have no use for thim that has dark 
skins.” 

•As the colonel’s only comment was a disapproving 
grunt Phipps lapsed into silence. 

The colonel found the men in camp about the armory 
ill high spirits. He had issued an order against drinking, 
but the unexpected success of their venture had intoxi- 
cated the men like vrine, and so they laughed and 
cheered and sang, and when the colonel came within 
the light of the campfires the}^ cheered him to the echo, 
for, like a true soldier, he was very popular with his fol- 
lowers. 

At sight of his face the uproar was stilled, for the 
men were quick to see that something unusual had hap- 
penevd. 

Galling the officers into tlie building and excluding 
all others, the colonel told them that Kohala was miss- 
ing and asked their advice in making a search. 

One man said : 

“Perhaps he has a sweetheart.” 

Another suggested : 

“It may be that the young man got scared.” 

But the general opinion was that Kohala had either 
been assassinated or captured and held for a reward. 

“If it’s for a reward,” said one of the officers, “we 
shall hear from his captors in the morning ; but if he’s 
done for, why, it’s my private opinion that we’ve seen 
the last of him.” 

This view of the case, though warranted by the circum- 
stances, was far from comforting to Colonel Loring. 

“A'ou, gentlemen,” he said to the officers about him, 
“have men in your commands who are entirely familiar 
with eveiy nook and corner of the city. Call these men 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


121 


apart and tell them in secret what I want— that is, to find 
Kohala, dead or alive, and if dead, to secure those who 
were the cause. Mark you, there is not a moment to 
spare.” 

The officers went out, and, witliin five minutes, re- 
turned to the building, each with from three to five 
men of his particular command. 

Speaking in low, earnest tones, tlie colonel told tlie 
volunteers his reason for sending for them, and added : 

“To the man who brings Kohala back, or reliable news 
of his whereabouts, I shall give from my own pocket a 
reward of one thousand dollars. ’ ’ 

Although tills was not an overpowering inducement 
to any of tliem, all of whom were eager to assist their 
young commander, it can be said that the tendency of 
the reward was not to weaken their efforts or to dampen 
their ardor in tlie search. The men selected for this deli- 
cate undertaking were all Americans, and so accustomed 
to orderly methods of procedure. 

One of their number,' who at one time had been chief 
of police, and who was knov.m as a detective of unusual 
shrewdness and one of the coolest and bravest men in 
the cit3% was elected to lead this extemporized organi- 
zation for search. 

This man’s name was Blake, and he was slender and 
smooth-faced, slightly bald, and with a mouth that 
looked to be lipless. 

Blake not only knew the city, but he knew all the 
sliady characters in it. He had rare powers as a lin- 
guist, being able to understand tlie Hawaiians and to 
make himself understood in their tongue. He had the 
same facility v.uth Portuguese, Chinese and Japanese, 


123 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


these nationalities being among those most prominently 
represented in the population of Honolulu. 

In addition to these qualifications Blake was a man of 
energy, and he had a fine talent for organization. 

He knew the worth of every man who had been de- 
tailed for the search, and knew just where to place him 
to the best advantage. 

Within a half-hour of Colonel Boring’s return with 
Phipps to the arsenal Blake had mapped out his plans 
and dispatched the men to the different districts as- 
signed them, telling them before they left to report to 
him from time to time at the Hawaiian Hotel. 

“I thought,” said Colonel Boring to Blake, when all 
the men had vanished, “that you would have gone out 
yourself. ’ ’ 

“N— no,” said Blake, shaking his head, “the time has 
not come for that yet, and I hope it may not come. I 
must get in the reports before I can act. It is as neces- 
sary to know what to avoid under these circumstances as 
it is to know what to look for. I shall sift all the re- 
ports, and if the young man is not found, then I shall 
put in my fine work. But let us get back to the hotel.” 

“You go to Colonel Ellis and tell him what I have done 
and what you are doing. I shall remain back till day- 
light, when I will detail guards to protect all the Govern- 
ment property in the city,” said Colonel Boring. 

Blake saluted, and hurried back, with Phipps, to the 
hotel. 

The latter was stronger than ever of the opinion that 
Kohala had been done to death by “a knife in the hand 
of Y alia K anak a. ’ ’ 

Blake made no comment on this, but he had scarcely 
given his report to Colonel Ellis before an incident 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


123 


transpired that tended to give strength to the theory 
of Phipps. 

The outer guard sent in word that a native, who was 
known to be in the employ of Colonel Ellis, wanted to 
see him. 

“Admit him at once,” said the colonel. 

A young Hawaiian, dressed in a straw hat and the 
loose blouse and wide cotton trousers of a field-hand, 
came bashfully into the room, removed his hat and 
saluted his master. 

“Well, Tom, what is it?” asked the colonel. 

Speaking in fairly good English, Tom said ; 

“I heard, sir, that Kohala was missing.’ ’ 

“Where did you hear it?” 

“From two white men who passed me on the street 
not ten minutes ago, and vvdio seemed to be sent out to 
search,” said Tom. 

“And you came to tell me this?” 

“No, sir; to tell you what I know about Kohala.” 

“Go on ! go on !” said the colonel, now sitting bolt up- 
right and looking at the native as if trying to anticipate 
his story. 

Looking into his straw hat, as if he saw there the 
source of his information and inspiration, Tom said : 

“I know Hoi. tioi is a Hawaiian and a bad, drunken 
man. It was this noon, and he was down by the water, 
sharpening his dagger, as if it was a razor. And I said : 
‘Hoi, why you do that?’ and he say, ‘to kill a man.’ ” 

“Did lie tell you whom he was going to kill?” asked 
the colonel. 

“Oh, yes ; for he think I am his great friend. He say : 
‘Tom, I get much money if to-night I kill a man. That 
man is young Kohala. Kohala, he troubles our Queen.’ ” 


124 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


“And what did you do then?” asked the colonel. 

“I do nothing; but I think Hoi, he’s a great fool, and 
he is drunk. Then I think no more of what he say till I 
listen and hear the two white men telling, that Kohala 
he could not be found. So, my master, I come to tell 
you.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MARGUERITE HOLMES LEARNS THE NEWS. 

For its size, there is not in the world a more entirely 
cosmopolitan city than Honolulu. 

Here, the Chinese, Japanese and Portuguese outnum- 
ber the natives and greatly exceed them in industry and 
prosperity. Here, also, are Africans and representatives 
of all the islands of the Pacific, from New Zealand to 
Formosa. Every European nation is represented, and, 
while in the main the whites are the best and the con- 
trolling element, yet among that class is to be found the 
most vicious and desperate criminals. 

Although she had “left the palace” for what she 
called “prudential reasons,” the Queen, with more 
spirit than wisdom, persisted in regarding herself as 
the ruler of Hawaii ; and she gave her orders, and per- 
sisted in giving them, till at length she realized that 
they were not carried out, and then into her by no means 
lucid mind the truth flashed that the Provisional Govern- 
ment, set up in defiance of her claims, was the sole au- 
thority to be obeyed in Honolulu. 

The morning following the revolution the American 
Minister, in order to secure protection to the property of 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


125 


liis own countrymen, called on Captain Wiltz, of the 
United States cruiser Boston, for assistance, and that 
gallant sailor responded by sending on shore a company 
of blue-jackets, armed with rifles, and under the com- 
mand of prudent officers. 

Tlie sun was not an hour high before the flag of the 
Union ^vas floating from the turret of the palace, for, 
by the act of the Minister, the Hawaiian Government 
was, for the time being, under the protection of the 
United States. 

The Queen heard of this ; indeed, she saw the flag as 
it went up, yet she comforted herself with the belief that 
the offense would not be permitted after her claims were 
made known to tlie American people. 

‘T shall again be recognized as the Queen of Hawaii.” 
Tliis is what she said to the many people who came to 
.condole with her or to gratify their curiosity by seeing 
what a deposed Queen looked like. 

Early the next morning she heard that a search was 
being made for Kohala, but she manifested no curiosity 
as to the reason of his absence, though it may be that 
she liad this in mind wdien she dispatched a messenger 
for Mrs. Holmes. 

Marguerite Holmes, though having much vital force 
and the resisting power that so often accompanies a high 
nervous organization, was far from being robust. What- 
ever extra effort she made was a draft on her resources, 
which, as is ever the case, had to be paid back to that in- 
exorable banker. Nature, with compound interest. 

It was near daylight when she dropped off into a 
troubled sleep, which might be described as unconscious- 
ness rather tlian rest, for, as she rolled and tossed, she 
could still hear tlie whizzing of the rockets, the cheering 


126 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


of the troops and the still more alarming clanging of the 
bells. 

When she woke it was near noon, and Clem was stand- 
ing by the bedside with a cup of tea in her hand, the 
providing of which was the first service she rendered 
her mistress every morning. 

Marguerite Holmes stroked her head and looked about 
her in that dazed, half-awake way of people who have 
not had enough nor the proper kind of sleep. 

“What time is it, Clem?” she asked, when the fog had 
cleared from her still troubled brain. 

“It’ll be near noon, mem, I’m thinkin’,’’ said Clem, 
“and I’d a-brought in the tea before, but I saw you were 
sleepin’, and looked tired. I’ve got your bath ready, 
mem, and I’m shore you’ll look as fresh as a pink after 
you’re dressed.’’ 

This was a very long speech for Clem, who appeared • 
to be in excellent spirits. Her mistress nodded, to indi- 
cate that her presence was not necessary, and then got 
up and made her toilet, taking little sips of tea in the 
pauses which her physical exhaustion made necessary. 

Marguerite Holmes went through the motions of eat- 
ing breakfast. Rather a lonely meal it was, but the 
woman, who was the soul of every gathering in which 
she found herself, led rather a solitary life, and loneli- 
ness is never so oppressive as at meal-times. 

She had just finished, and her eyes began to grow a 
little brighter, when Clem, who had come in to take 
away the things, said : . 

“They had great carryin’s on last night, mem.’’ 

“Was there bloodshed?’’ asked Marguerite, with a 
shudder. 

“No, mem; that is, there was no right up-and-down 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


127 


regular shootiii’ and stabbiii’, like I’ve heerd about in 
battles, where hundreds and thousands of men is killed ; 
still they think there’s been some one hurt.” 

‘‘What do you mean?” and Mrs. Holmes pushed tlie 
ripples of bronze hair back from her broad, low fore- 
head and looked more than ever like a girl in her teens. 

‘‘Of course, mem, you ain’t heard that the Yankee 
sojers has took the town and put their flag up over the 
palace?” said Clem, purposely avoiding a direct an- 
swer, for she had something of the dramatic instinct 
in her mental make-up and wanted to work her infor- 
mation up to a fitting climax. 

‘‘I expected as much,” said Marguerite, quietly. ‘‘But 
what about the bloodshed; who has been hurt?” 

‘‘They don’t just know, mem, whether he has been 
hurt or not as yet, for they haven’t been able to find 
him, with all their sarchin’.” 

‘‘To find whom, Clem?” asked Marguerite, with in- 
creasing interest. 

‘‘The young gent.” 

‘‘What young gent?” In her anxiety she fell into 
Clem’s vernacular. 

“The dark young prince — I can never recall his name 
— that is so fond of you, mem,” and Clem smacked her 
thin lii)S as if the words had an unusually pleasant taste. 

‘‘Kohala!” exclaimed Marguerite, and the natural 
pallor gave place to an ashy hue, and the long-lashed 
gray eyes took on an expression of indescribable agony. 

“Yes, mem, that’s the one I mean.” 

“But what of him?” and Marguerite rose from her 
ciiair and looked into the stony eyes and stolid face of 
her attendant. 

“The last thing that’s been heard of him, mem, dead 


128 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


or alive, was when he called on you last night and you 
was out.” 

"Who told you this?” 

"Oh, mem, detectives and others has been here, but I 
told ’em you was sick. And they thought, fust off, that 
you’d run away with him, till I let one man named 
Blake look in the bedroom door and see for himself that 
you was present and sleepin’ like a little angel. But, 
for all that, I’m shore there’s detectives a-watchin’ of 
the house ; but what they’re doin' of it for is more than 
I can make out,” and Clem actually smiled, something 
that seemed to transform her into another but an equally 
repulsive person. 

Marguerite Holmes stood stroking her forehead like 
one in a dream ; all the light had gone out of her eyes 
and her thin lips trembled and were bloodless. 

Clem was beginning to feel alarmed at this awful si- 
lence, and was about to propose that she run across the 
street and call in Dr. Wallace when the bell rang vio- 
lently. She answered it, and came back to say : 

“It’s the same young man, mem, that’s been here be- 
fore from the Queen. ’ ’ 

"Admit him,” said Marguerite, hoarsely. 

"Her Majesty desires me to say,” said Lan, who, though 
of graceful person, was anything but a courtier in his 
manner, "that she’d like to see Mrs. Holmes just as 
soon as she can come to her. ’ ’ 

" Please say that I shall come at once,” said Margue- 
rite. 

Lan vanished, and Mrs. Holmes went to her room and 
put on the becoming little violet bonnet and a black lace 
shawl— these things with no thought of effect, but be- 
cause they were the first that came to hand. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


129 


“When will you be back, mem?” asked Clem, as lier 
mistress stood at the door, in a weak, hesitating way. 

“I do not know.” 

“But the captain, mem, he was here this niornin’ and 
told me not to wake you, but I know he wants to see 
ycai very much. What’ll I say to him, mem, if he calls, 
as he’ll be most shore to do, for he seems to be verv 
much troubled?” 

“Say to him, also, tliat you do not know when I shall 
return. ’ ’ 

“And must I say that you told me so?” 

“You can, if you see fit.” 

“He may not like it, mem.” 

“Do as you are told, Clem; you are just a little bolder 
than I care to see you.” 

Into the sweet, troubled face there, came for an in- 
stant a mingled expression of dignity and indignation 
that told more than volumes that the little woman had 
not forgotten in her anguish the lines that separated her 
from her servant. 

Clem said: “Beg parding, mem,” and stepped back, to 
choke her laughter with her apron when her mistress 
was gone. 

Marguerite Holmes always wore a veil on the streets — 
one of those dark, spider-web things that neither con- 
ceals the face nor seriously interferes with the vision of 
the wearer. 

Without seeming to do so, as soon as she entered the 
street from the garden surrounding the cottage she took 
a quick glance up and down. There were many men 
in sight, some of them detectives, no doubt, and she felt 
that they were watching her and discussing her; but 


130 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


she walked on seemingly indifferent to everything but 
her own torturing thoughts. 

So far as it was known to her most intimate acquaint- 
ances in Honolulu there was nothing in this woman 
that indicated depth of feeling or seriousness of char- 
acter. Indeed, if her best friend, Dr. Wallace, were 
questioned about it he would have been forced to con- 
fesSj as a truthful man, that Mrs. Holmes gave those 
with whom she came in contact the impression of 
being light-hearted to the limit of frivolity, if not of 
flippancy; yet, with all this, there was a certain inde- 
scribable dignity about her in her lightest moods and 
most trivial times that indicated something better 
under the surface than appeared upon it. 

Had Dr. Wallace seen her now, as she hurried toward 
the house where the dethroned Queen was stopping, 
he would hardly have recognized the pallid, drawn and 
pain-lined face for that of the smiling, sweet- voiced little 
woman who had thrown the net of her fascinations about 
him and about others, as more beautiful and more intel- 
lectual women could not have done. 

Marguerite Holmes was more or less of a mystery to 
every one who knew her, but to not one of them was 
she so much of a mystery as she was to herself. 

As drowning men are said, in the few seconds preced- 
ing unconsciousness, to see before their mental vision- 
like a landscape lit up by the lightning’s flash on a star- 
less, stormy night— the whole panorama of their lives, so 
she, as she hurried on, heart-tortured and seemingly with 
no destination in view, saw her own past, with its gloom 
and sunlight, its errors and its good alike, the results of 
unreasoning impulse. 

Orphaned while yet a child ; educated on the remnant 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


131 


of a fortune left by a spendthrift father: married by 
stealth, and while yet a schoolgirl, to an Oxford student 
unable to pay his debts, much less able to support her, 
the sore trials of life came to her at a time when more 
fortunate girls retain still a fondness for their dolls. 

All this she saw, as she had often seen it when she 
debated with herself the question of continuing the 
struggle. She saw her husband, whose education at 
the great English school had unfitted him for, rather 
than equipping him for, the battle of life, growing 
weaker and weaker through the excesses of his student 
life, which he had not the physique to stand nor the 
means to continue. After vainly trying to live as a 
coach for backward students, he was given a small an- 
nuity by a rich uncle and sent out to California to grow 
better, or to die; to the uncle, no doubt, the latter 
would have been preferred. 

And so she saw herself a widow, with the small al- 
lowance continued. Her constitution, never strong, 
was shattered, and nothing was left but the indescribable 
charm that might have made her the ornament of a 
happy home and the wife of a worthy man. 

All this Marguerite Holmes had kept to lierseif, for 
she liad the secretiveness that is born of pride, and would 
have assumed an air of opulence amid penury and given 
the impression that she had been to a banquet when she 
was pinched with hunger. 

Curiously enough this strange w^oman did not realize 
lier one great weakness, and that was her desire to be 
admired, to make an impression on men, not so much 
for tlie sake of provoking lov'e as to excite admiration, 
not so much to bring men under her influence as to feel 
that she need only be alone so long as she desired. 


132 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


As a widow, she was enjoying the attentions which 
the insane folly of her early marriage had deprived her 
of as a girl. 

She had never imagined what the love of a strong, 
ardent man could be till she met Kohala on the steamer 
tliat took her to Honolulu. His intellect and the grace 
and beauty of his person attracted her, for, though by 
no means well-educated herself, she had an intense ad- 
miration for men of culture and force ; and in the con- 
templation of this superb young Hawaiian, with his 
manliness, his ardor and his frankness, she forgot all 
about the difference in race, as did all who came into 
contact with him. 

Realizing her own dependence on the annuity that 
barely enabled her to live, and which would h^e been 
inadequate if she had not been so skillful with her 
needle as to obviate the necessity for a seamstress, it 
was prudent if not natural for her to treat the advances 
of Captain Featherstone with consideration, though, 
from first to last, she never regarded him with the feel- 
ing which she wanted to give to the man who took her 
first husband’s place. 

Kohala, from the beginning, she considered entirely 
out of her reach, and if she schemed to aid Featherstone 
it was with no intent to win at the expense of the young 
Hawaiian. All this ran through her mind, till she 
found herself rapping at the door of the house in which 
the Queen had found refuge. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

CONTINUING THE SEARCH. 

Colonel Ellis, in his anxiety for Kohala, forgot, for 
the time, the revolution which he and his associates had 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


133 


set in motion, a revolution which was destined to make 
an important, if not the most important, epoch in Ha- 
waiian history 

He had no sleep ; but his was not an exceptional case, 
for there were very few, but drunken men and children, 
who went to bed in Honolulu that night. 

Soon after daylight his daughter Alice, who, it will 
be remembered, was betrothed to Colonel Loring, and 
who acted as one of the Queen’s maids of honor on the 
occasion of the last ball given at the palace, came to see 
him, with her mother. 

Alice Ellis was an exceedingly pretty and attractive 
girl, with the self-confidence and entire lack of self- 
consciousness that are the distinguishing traits in the 
character of the typical American girl. Ever since her 
earliest childhood Alice had known Kohala. He had 
been her playmate, and, with a childlike indifference to 
race, she grew to regard him as a brother then, and the 
years had strengthened rather than weakened this de- 
lightful sisterly affection. 

Anxiety for the safety of her father and her lover, of 
which Colonel Loring, with great thoughtfulness, kept 
her apprised from time to time, kept her and her mother 
awake all night ; for, though by no means timid women, 
they could not remain indifferent to the danger when the 
coolest and wisest men in the city feared that their pur- 
pose could hardly be achieved without bloodshed. 

The delight of Alice Ellis and her mother at hearing of 
the great success of the revolution was quickly changed 
to pale-faced grief when the colonel explained his own 
haggard looks by telling them of the inexplicable ab- 
sence of Kohala. 

Mrs, Ellis was “certain that that designing woman,” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


uu 


meaning Mrs. Holmes, “was at the bottom of it.’’ But 
her husband, who had been of the same opinion, told 
her that Mrs. Holmes, evidently a sick woman, was at 
tliat very moment asleep, or at least in bed, in her own 
room, and that her cottage was being watched by the de- 
tectives. 

Alice Ellis was nothing if not just. She had had her 
own doubts as to Mrs. Holmes, but she Avas too noble- 
minded to breathe these doubts to another, and too gen- 
erous to restrain an innate impulse to defend those who 
aped the evil-minded by baseless denunciation. 

“I have not seen a great deal of Mrs. Holmes,’’ she 
said, “but what I have seen I have liked. Poor little 
tiling ! she may possibly be what we very good and 
proper people call imprudent, but she is all alone, with 
a thousand to criticise and slander and not one, that I 
know of, to whisper to her a friendly word of caution. 

1 have noticed, and it has pained me to see it, that wo- 
men who pose as models of all the proprieties watch 
the little v.ndow, not that they may discover what is 
good in her, but that they may find something to distort 
into a scandal. ’ ’ 

“I am glad she has one champion in Honolulu,” said 
the colonel, not at all displeased at the position his 
daughter liad taken. ^ 

“I quite agree with Alice,” said Mrs. Ellis, who, at 
heart, was one of the best of women; “but she must 
confess that Mrs. Holmes has been, to put it mildly, 
most imprudent in her flirtations with poor Kohala, 
wlio, in matters of the heart is as innocent as a child.” 

“My precious dearest!” said Alice, and she threw her 
right arm about her Jiiother’s neck and kissed her, “in 
matters of the heart, as you call love, we need no lon'"^ 


KOHALA OF HAWAII; 


135 


experience. Isn’t Cupid pictured as a blind boy? He 
would be a disgusting little cad if lie went about with 
his eyes open and wearing a dress suit. But pray, if 
Mrs. Holmes loves Kohala and Kohala loves her— as 
he certainly does— I can’t for the life of me see what 
moral code either or both of them is violating in that. 
Love is natural, and must be expressed. As to this 
baby-betrothing of Leila and Kohala, it is something 
peculiar to Congo savages and European princes, and I 
am astonished that my good, kind, noble, darlingest 
papa should lend himself to the perpetuation of such a 
disagreeable Kanaka custom. I wonder how he would 
like it if some one had come along about the time he 
was geting up courage to propose to you, mamma, and 
told him that he mustn’t do anything so wicked, for he 
was betrothed to another girl while he was yet in short 
skirts?” 

“But Leila loves him,” broke in Mrs. Ellis. 

“Well, that shows more taste than spirit in Leila. 
Why — and I say this knowing that she is a fine girl of 
whom I am very fond — ever since Kohala has come back 
she has figuratively and literally thrown herself at his 
head. That’s enough to frighten off any man, and much 
more one who is inclined to lean the other way. She 
should have concealed her love till she was sure of him — ” 

“As you did with Arthur Loring?” said the colonel. 

“Exactly: that is an excellent illustration. Why, I 
kept that man on thorns for three months, and all the 
time I loved him quite as warmly and sincerely as Leila 
of Hawaii can ever love Kohala. If this is to be a free 
country let people marry for love and not for reasons 
of State, say I.” 

“And so say we all of us,” said Colonel Loring, who 


136 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


had come into the room unnoticed while Alice was giv- 
ing such free and eloquent expression to her views on 
matrimony. 

Colonel Loring, in response to a torrent of inquiries, 
said that he had learned nothing more about Kohala. 
Blake was now out, and the town was being thoroughly 
searched, and all the roads leading from it were guarded. 

He advised Colonel Ellis to go home to breakfast with 
his wife and daughter, saying that he would remain 
back at headquarters to attend to anything that might 
turn up. 

This suggestion was acted upon at once, and, ’weary 
in body and tortured in mind. Colonel Loring threw him- 
self on a sofa. Though his reason told him he was in 
no way to blame, he still felt, as Kohala had been in his 
charge, that he was responsible for his safety. 

‘T think, colonel, that if you could manage to swallow 
a glass of good whisky that it’d aize yer mind and give 
you an appetite for the breakfast,” said Phipps, the glit- 
ter in his eyes and a certain hesitancy in his speech tell- 
ing that he had himself been testing the merits of his 
own prescription that morning. 

“No, Phipps, I v/ant no whisky to provoke my appe- 
tite, nor do you, either. And, let me say, my good fel- 
low, that the first man I find under the influence of liquor 
in my command I’ll make an example of.” 

“And, sure, it’s dead right ye’ll be, colonel. I am an 
owid sojer mesel’, and jooty’s jooty, and I’d be for 
bangin’ the man that got drunk in the face of the inimy ; 
but in a time of pace, such as the prisint seems to be, 
it’s a intirely different thing.” And Phipps saluted 
in good military fashion and went down to order the 
colonel’s brea.kfast. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


137 


Colonel Loring had just about concluded the morning 
meal when Blake, looking as fresh as if he had not been 
up and at work all night, came in. 

“Well, Blake, what news?” asked the colonel. 

“We’ve found Hoi,” replied Blake. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Blake, go right on and tell me 
all about it. I am too nervous to ask questions,” and 
the colonel handed Blake a cigar, lit one himself, and 
again stretched out, full-length, on the sofa. 

“I know Hoi,” said Blake, as he bit off the end of his 
cigar and struck a match. “He’s a lazy, drunken loafer, 
without the courage of a mouse or the conscience of a 
hog. We found him drunk down in the Chinese Quar- 
ter, as I expected, and he had his famous dagger still in 
his belt. It is as bright as it was the day he bought 
it. Of course, he might have done work with it and 
cleaned it after ; but I am sure he wasn’t sober enough 
last night to do that, or anything else.” 

“What did you do with the fellow?” 

“Sent him to the lockup to get sober, which won’t be 
till this afternoon, and then I’ll frighten him out of the 
little wits he has left ; but, as I said before, I am sure 
he’s not in this job,” said Blake, and he struck another 
match and pulled till the cigar was smoking to his satis- 
faction ; then he changed his position and his manner , 
and asked : 

“Colonel, what do you know about the man who calls 
himself ‘Captain Featherstone, late of the English 
Army’? ” 

“Only that he became acquainted with Kohala in Eu- 
rope some time ago, and since then, it seems, he has 
stuck as close to him as if he were his shadow.” 

“Was he in Kohala ’s employ, think you?” 


138 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“No, Blake, I am very sure he was not. I think, how- 
ever, from the fact that lie hangs round the English Con- 
sulate a great deal, that it is possible he is in some way 
in the employ of that Government.” 

“Yes, I have thought as much myself,” said Blake. 

“But why do you ask about Featherstone— surely you 
do not associate him in your mind with the abduction 
of Kohala, if, indeed, he has been abducted?” and the 
colonel sat up and flipped the ashes from his cigar. 

“Colonel Boring,” said Blake, speaking very slowly 
and with his face turned to the ceiling, the better to 
blow out smoke-rings, “I don’t know much about di- 
plomacy, I’ll confess ; but, like all men, I have my own 
opinions, even about things that are a bit hazy in my 
mind. But you are a graduate of West Point and know 
everything — ” 

“Y'ou are far off there, Blake; but go on,” said the 
colonel. 

“Now, don’t you think if the English Government 
liad the slightest ghost of an excuse for seizing on to 
these here islands that they’d do it at once and take the 
consequences ? ’ ’ 

“Y"es, Blake, that has been England’s habit, and as a 
consequence she has gathered to herself more real estate 
than is profitable or that she can well take care of,” said 
the colonel. 

“Y'es; but she ain’t got anything finer than these is- 
lands, for God’s sun in the twenty-four hours don’t shine 
011 a fairer or a richer land than this, except it might be 
on the green hills way down in the heart of Kentucky, i 
Avhere, to my mind, the Garden of Eden was originally 
built, or if it wasn’t, it must haA^e been an OAmrsight. 
Noav, if England at anted to get these islands in what 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


139 


might look like ?*. fair deal how do you think she’d go 
to work about it?” 

“Upon my word, Blake, I can’t imagine, unless she 
seized them by force, and that would mean a row with 
Uncle Sam.” 

“No, she doesn’t want a row ; but how would this 
work: Kohala, he’s the rightful heir to the throne — 
that we all know — but he doesn’t want it; if he did, 
nine-tenths of the natives would side with him. But 
suppose he was made a prisoner like, and he was told : 
‘You must declare yourself King of Hawaii at once, or 
die,’ the chances are he’d proclaim himself— I know I 
would. Well, the natives stand by him and England 
shouting ‘Fair play, and give the boy a chance!’ comes 
to his help. Why, then the game would be in England’s 
hands, and the King would soon find himself a puppet.” 

“That’s a bold theory, Blake, and it shows you are 
more of a diplomat than I am,” said the colonel. 

“There may be nothing in all this, mark you; but I’ve 
made up my mind to watch Featherstone. He’s playing 
for big stakes, but I am satisfied that he has a job con- 
tract and is not regularly employed by the English Gov- 
ernment. They couldn’t afford to do,tha,t, but there is 
nothing to prevent their handsomely rewarding the man 
who turns over to them the King and Kingdom of Ha- 
waii. That’s what I’ve been ciphering out. That’s why 
I think Featherstone has been sticking to Kohala closer 
than a brother. And that’s why I’m willing to bet, even, 
that when we come to make the last analysis of the situa- 
tion — as the assayers have it — we’ll find that this Feather- 
stone is responsible for the absence of our friend, ” and 
Blake lit his cigar again, while the colonel surveyed him 
with undisguised admiration. 


140 


KOHAI.A OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A STORMY SCENE. 

Captain Featherstone was quite as unpopular 
among the men of Honolulu as Marguerite Holmes was 
with the women. To be sure, he had been invited to 
dinner on board one of the English ships, and he had 
Ids mail addressed to the care of the English Consul, 
things that gave him a shadowy social standing, as did 
the fact that he and Kohala were, seemingly, intimate 
friends. Yet there was a something about Featherstone 
that provoked dislike and distrust, though his bitterest 
hater, if called on for a reason for his dislike, could 
have been forced to confess that he had no tangible 
reason, and he might quote the old rhyme : 

“I do not like you. Doctor Fell, 

But why it is I cannot tell ; 

Yet there is this I know full well — 

I do not like you, Doctor Fell. ’ ’ 

Captain Featherstone ’s attentions to the little widow 
did not escape the alert vigilance of the gossips of Hono- 
lulu — gossips who are the curse of every isolated com- 
munity between the Poles and the Equator. Some actually 
believed that the two were actually married, and that 
the fact was kept from the public the better to enable 
them to carry out their schemes for despoiling it. 

Featherstone, w’hile defying the purpose of the Ameri- 
cans to force- the Queen from the throne, was far too 
slirewd to openly take sides with Her Majesty or per- 
sonally to oppose the forces organized by Colonel Loring. 

Marguerite Holmes was not a strong woman nor even 
a self-reliant one : had she been either, she would never 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


141 


have permited herself to be brought so entirely under 
the influence of a man whom, at heart, she thoroughly 
disliked, and, as a consequence, dreaded. 

The fact that she was a stranger in a strange land and 
that Featherstone was her countryman — and in a strange 
land a countryman seems like a kinsman— might be 
urged as an excuse for her treatment of this man. She 
was far too intelligent not to see through his purpose, 
and far too cunning to lend herself entirely to his 
schemes, though she had the tact to keep these thoughts 
to herself. 

Marguerite Holmes did not know anything about the 
fate of Kohala, and this added to her torture ; but from 
the instant of the first information she had, without 
Blake’s shrewd method of reasoning, reached exactly 
the same conclusion. 

She called upon the Queen, and found Her Deposed 
Majesty even more defiant and arbitrary than had been 
her habit. 

\ 

Without any salutation, and scarcely deigning to look 
at her little visitor, the Queen ordered the others present 
to leave the room, and the door had hardly closed behind 
them when she asked, with maddening rudeness : 

“Woman ! what have you done with this man?” 

“Pardon me, but I fail to understand Your Majesty,” 
said Marguerite, and she looked down on the Queen, who 
remained seated, with a look of undisguised contempt 
in the long-lashed eyes. 

“Where is Kohala?” demanded the Queen. 

“I do not know,” said Marguerite, with forced calm- 
ness. 

“You don’t?” 

“I do not.” 


KOHALA OF PIAWAII. 




“And you wish me to believe that?” 

“I wish Your Majesty to believe nothing You have 
seen fit to speak to me in an insulting way and I choose 
to answer as becomes a lad3^ ’ ' 

“You grow defiant because j^ou think I am no longer 
Queen of Hawaii: is that it?” 

“That is not it. Your being a Queen did not elevate 
your character, nor can the loss of your throne degrade 
it. I speak to you now as woman to woman, and I re- 
peat that I do not know what has become of this man.” 

“And j^et the last time he was seen was when he called 
at your cottage.” 

“So I have been told.” 

“And you. did not see him?” 

“I did not.” 

“Maj' I ask why?” 

“Because at the very time he called I, though it was 
not an hour for an unprotected woman to be on the 
streets, yielding to the urgent summons of Your Maj- 
esty, came here,” said Marguerite, with a dignity that 
was in striking contrast with the Queen’s bruskness. 

“I suppose I must believe j'ou,” snapped the Queen. 

“Your belief in this and in all other matters is one of 
the prerogatives of which the revolution has not deprived 
Your Majesty. I should prefer that you believed the 
truth, for your own sake, rather than the error for my 
own.” 

Mrs. iTolmes, said the Queen, with a calmer manner, 
that rather intensified the tigerish gleam in her half- 
closed eyes, “you no doubt imagine that the ceremony 
performed at the palace on the eve of Kohala’s depart- 
ure for Hawaii was a sham?” 

“Your Majesty led me to infer that it w'as a sham, and 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


143 


that my concurrence was necessary as a matter of diplo- 
j macy ; but I do not think I was deceived, and, let me add, 
I am responsible for my own part in that transaction and 
am quite ready to face the consequences. And now, if 
Your Majesty has no further degradation to offer me, I 
shall ask permission to retire,” and, before the Queen, 
who was choking with anger, could make a reply, Mar- 
j guerite Holmes was at the other side of the door and out 
of the house. 

The little woman withdrew from this strange interview 
feeling that she had not had the worst of it; and, al- 
though she had been inclined to side with the Queen’s 
i party, her heart now throbbed with genuine satisfaction 
■ as, on the way back, she saw the United States flag 
floating from the roof of the palace. 

On reaching home she went at once to her own room, 
and was in the act of exchanging her street dress for 
: the warm-colored wrapper that so well became her 
slender figure when Clem rapped at the door, and, 
■wuth a forced little cough, such as she always prefaced 
an announcement with, she said : 

“Please, mem, the captain is here.” 

“Captain Featherstone?” Marguerite mentioned the 
name, although there was no other captain among her 
acquaintances in Honolulu. “Show him into the sit- 
ting-room, Clem, and say that I shall join him pres- 
j ently.” 

“The sitting-room, mem?” said Clem, in surprise, for 
' heretofore the ‘captain had been received in the little 
I gem of a boudoir, which Marguerite had ^daintily deco- 
rated with her own hands, and where she sewed and en- 
tertained her few lady callers. 

“I said the sitting-room,” repeated Marguerite, with 



144 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


an emphasis that surprised Clem, who had come to be- 
lieve that her mistress was as wanting in force as a 
child, and for whicli reason she held her in contempt, i 
for the woman was of that servile class that impose on 
weakness and cringe before strength. 

Captain Featherstone had been up all night, and he 
looked as if he had not been in bed for a week. 

He was pacing tlie floor and stroking his mustache in 
a nervous way when Marguerite entered. His back was 
toward her when he heard her light steps, and, turning 
Muth extended arms, as if he were going to kiss her, he 
said : 

“Flossy, I am glad to have found you in at last.” 

She drew back from his advance, motioned him to a 
chair, and, taking one herself, said : 

“I have been here continuously, except when obeying 
the commands of Her Majesty to call on her, which l| 
have done for the last time.”- 

Featherstone, Avith an expression half angry and the 
other half perplexed, eyed the little woman over, and 
then asked : 

“Yv^hat is up with you?” 

“EA'ery thing,” she replied. 

“What do you mean, Flossy? Surely you are not pro- 
voked at me?” he said, with forced calmness and some- 
thing of the old gallantry in his voice and expression. i 

“No,” she replied, “I am provoked at myself.” 

“But what for?” 

“For being a fool and a tool, when ail my instincts 
plead that I should do right and be true to myself. But 
the mischief is done; the milk is spilled, and crying will 
not restore it. ” 

“Oh. come, come, you are nervous, and no wonder 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


145 


after the excitement of last night. The Yankees have 
started a blaze that won’t go down if they want it to. 
They imagine that they have everything their own way, 
but they will see they are counting without their host.” 

Featherstone waited, and Marguerite, seeing that some 
comment was expected, said : 

“1 do not understand it ; I might if I were a man.” 

“But you fully understood the plans, as I laid them 
down to you from time to time. I am quite sure of 
that, and let me say my plans have not changed,” said 
Featherstone, confidently. 

“Not changed !” she echoed. 

“Not in the slightest.” 

“Then the revolution, as they call it, has not effected 
tliem?” 

“On the contrary, it has helped me.” 

“You surprise me. ’ ’ 

“Yet it is true; and now all I want is that you shall 
give me your influence for a few days and we shall have 
everything just as we want it.” 

“I may be stupid, but I must confess I do not under- 
stand.” 

“Then I shall make myself clearer.” 

“If you can.” 

“You remember our plan — ” 

“Your plan, captain,” she interrupted. 

“Well, my plan, if you will have it so, to get Kohala 
to have himself proclaimed king, which he can be made 
to do only through the unbounded influence you have over 
him. The time for this has come, and nine-tenths of the 
natives and a majority of the whites are ready to sustain 
him, if he says the word. And now — ” 

“And now,” interrupted Marguerite again, grief and 


146 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


indignation mingling and glowing in her eyes, “there 
is one thing — and that the most essential — wanting to 
perfect your plans.” 

“What is that?” he coughed. 

“Kohala!” 

“Kohala?” 

“Yes.” 

“I will not pretend to' say that I do not know the 
young man is missing ; but if I wanted to find him — 
and I shall want to find him if you are still ready to 
co-operate with me — I do not think there will be much 
trouble in doing so.” 

“Then Kohala is living!” she cried, and she clasped 
her hands 'and half raised them, as in the act of prayer. 

“I feel very certain that he is ; sure of it, indeed.” 

“And he is remaining away of his own volition?” 

“Well, hardly that. His friends — and, mark you, I 
am telling you this in the strictest confidence — are keep- 
ing him away from the Americans, and will continue to 
keep him till he is ready to act ; and he will be ready 
to act as soon as you tell him what to do.” 

Marguerite Holmes interlocked her fingers while 
Featherstone was speaking, and the little mouth worked 
as if in effort to keep back the words that demanded ut- 
terance. At length, unable longer to control herself, she 
sprang to her feet and cried out : 

“Take me — take me to Kohala at once !” 

“Why, you are surprisingly eager, ” said Featherstone, 
and the veins along his thick neck began to swell. “What 
is the reason for this unusual interest in the young man?” 

“It is the best reason for interest that any woman can 
have,” she said, and, with a glow of pride on her face, 
she looked straight into his blood-shot eyes. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


147 


“May I ask wliat that reason is?” 

“You may.” 

“Then I do ask it. ” 

“The reason is that I love him as I never loved man 
before ! Love liim as a woman should love the man to 
whom she is lawfully wed !” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION. 

The simile, “like lightning out of a cloudless sky,” is 
trite but very effective, considering its basis in fact ; but 
that and all other stock illustrations intended to picture 
intense surprise and indignant amazement would be en- 
tirely ineffectual to give an idea of Featherstone’s as- 
tonishment when Marguerite Holmes, looking straight 
into his eyes, told him that she loved Kohala, and that 
she was his wife. 

Captain Featherstone was the embodiment of selfish- 
ness. It is doubtful if he ever performed a generous 
act from a noble motive. He would have been as ready, 
for a price, to sell his country as he was to aid her ; and 
he would have promised marriage to the most wrinkled 
and toothless hag in Hawaii if, by so doing, he cord.d 
further his own debased ends. 

For two years he had been a follower, a hanger-on of 
Kohala, his purpose being to see him crowned King of 
Hawaii, while he himself — by what means we cannot 
pretend to say or by reason of what understanding— 
would secure a rich reward if he secured an English pro- 
tectorate of the islands. 

As far as he was capable of loving any one Captain 


148 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Featherstone loved Marguerite Holmes, and, as his wife, 
he may have been willing to share, in part, with her the 
money he expected to get ; yet, like the mercenary and 
unprincipled wretch that he was, he brought Kohala 
under the fascinating spell of the woman he imagined 
he loved himself, till the entanglement became inextri- 
cable. 

That Marguerite Holmes encouraged him in the belief 
that his attentions were agreeable and that she led him 
to believe that she would help him to carry out his de- 
signs, and on their completion become his wife, cannot, 
perhaps, be truthfully denied. 

But in extenuation of this it should not be forgotten 
that the little woman was alone in the world, her sole 
dependence a petty annuity, the continuance of whicq 
rested with an eccentric man, whom she hardly knew 
and to whom she was allied by no ties of consanguinity. 

While her conduct cannot be defended from a high 
ethical standpoint, before we condemn we should recall 
that she was like the proverbial drowning man, who, in 
his desperate struggle for self-preservation, forgets the 
rights of others in his fear of death. From the imposi- 
tion of pretended love, which Featherstone implored her 
to practice on Kohala, she stood exonerated by her con- 
duct. 

Before Kohala went to Hawaii to visit the chief Keona, 
unknown to Featherstone a marriage with Marguerite 
Holmes was performed at the palace. The Queen’s party, 
who brought this about, kept the matter secret, intend- 
ing to spring it on the people if an attempt were made 
to place Kohala on the throne. 

The Queen’s friends knew that the knowledge of such 
a marriage would alienate the 'natives and provoke the 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


149 


relentless opposition of Keona, who, as has been seen, 
regarded Kohala as the betrothed of his daughter Leila, 
and with the chief’s opposition the young man’s chances 
as a ruler were a thousand times less than those of the 
deposed Queen. 

Featherstone’s purpose was to get Kohala to assert his 
riglits to the throne, for which he did not care and 
which he would not have, unless it were to please the 
woman for whose gratification he was willing to sacri- 
fice even life itself. 

But when the captain saw all his airy castles dissolv- 
ing before h^s gaze, and all his dreams of wealth dissi- 
pated by the very person on whose co-operation and 
fidelity to himself so much — everything, indeed — de- 
pended, he could not, for the time being, credit the evi- 
dence of his senses. 

Forgetting the forced gallantry that had hitherto dis- 
tinguished his intercourse with Marguerite tiolmes, he 
shot out a fierce oath, and leaping to his feet, with arm 
raised as if he were going to strike her, he shouted out : 

“Lov'e*! Lawfully wed! Woman, what do you mean?” 

She looked so pale and delicate and slender as she stood 
there before him that Clem — who was screwing her eye 
to the keyhole outside — expected to see her mistress fall 
down in a faint, or, at least, to hear her scream ; but in- 
stead, she never moved, never dropped her gaze from 
Ills red and brutally enraged face. 

In a voice whose low, well-bred tones were in striking 
contrast with the fierce bellowing of the man. Margue- 
rite said : “I mean what I have said.” 

“That you love Kohala?” 

“Ay, every hair in his head and every curve of his 
face.” 


150 


KOHaLA of HAWAII. 


“And you are married to him?” 

“I am.” 

“When did this happen?” 

“Go ask Kohala. He does not lie, nor offer an insult 
to women who lack the brute strength of the bully. He 
will tell the truth, as becomes a man who is a prince and 
a prince who is a man. ” 

Again Featherstone began pacing the room and pulling 
at his red mustache, while he shot glances at once ques- 
tioning and malignant at the little woman. After a few 
minutes he came to a sudden halt before her and burst 
out : 

“Merciful powers ! you cannot mean this. You planned 
this fiction to tease me, to try me, to test me ! Tell me 
that you did not mean it. Do that or lay me dead at 
your feet, for you might as well kill me in one way as 
in another!” 

“Take me to Kohala at once, and in my presence let 
him speak for himself. If he says I have not told the 
truth I will confess that I have lied. If he says he 
wants to be King of Hawaii I will sustain him. If he 
says that henceforth he must live impoverished and in 
exile I will share his lot, and deem a cabin and priva- 
tion heaven so that he be there. ’ ’ 

Once more Featherstone resumed his pacing and his 
pulling and biting at the red mustache. Gradually the 
terrible truth found a resting-place in his fevered brain 
and forced upon him a realization of his own helpless 
and dangerous situation, now that the ally on whom he 
had counted for so much had deserted him. 

Fears for his personal safety banished from his mind 
the fortune which he had imagined within his reach 
and the wife and houses that he was to count among his 
personal assets when he returned to England. 

But he was quick to see that the woman who had 
blasted all his schemes had it in her power to have him 
arrested by the Provisional Army and subjected to the 
sanguinary rage of men, many of whom, in the gold 
hills beyond the sea, had given work to a coroner’s jury 
for offenses mild compared with that of which he knew 
himself to be guilty. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


151 


Had he obeyed the impulses of his own cowardly and 
intensely animal nature he would have sought to coerce 
Marguerite Holmes into silence by intimidation and 
playing on her fears ; but the unexpected role in which 
he now saw himself, and which was not the least ele- 
ment in his surprise, convinced him that it would be 
good policy to win her to his present purpose by means 
similar to those employed when he flattered himself that 
he was gaining her love. 

With a sigh, which there was no need to affect. Cap- 
tain Featherstone seemed to shrink into himself, for his 
head was bowed and his arms hung heavily by his side 
as he again halted before her and said : 

“You have ruined all my prospects, and now, if you 
so desire — and I shall not ask you not to do so — it is in 
your power to hand me over to the lawless mob which 
is at present in possession of this unfortunate city, and 
let them tear me to pieces. ’ ’ 

“I have no desire to do you an injury,” she said, and 
her sensitive sympathies— her weakest characteristic — 
brought tears to the long-lashed gray eyes, till even 
Featherstone forgot his troubles in momentary admira- 
tion of her girlish beauty “Whatever I can do to save 
you without injustice to others I shall be glad to do.” 

“Flossy— no, I can never call you by that dear name 
again— Mrs.— Mrs. Kohala, do you mean that?” and 
Featherstone half lifted his hand as if expecting hers 
to meet it, then let it fall again. 

“I do.” 

“Will you make me one promise?” 

“What is it?” 

“Say that you will make it; it will bring no harm to 
you, and it will help me.” 

“If such be the case I give you the promise,” she said, 
with characteristic impulsiveness. 

“It is that you do not repeat to any living soul what I 
have told you about Kohala till I remove the injunction 
of sec*recy and silence.” 

“I will agree to that, on one condition.” 

“Name the condition.” 

“It is that you take me at once to Kohala.” 


152 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“At once?” 

“Yes, at once.” 

“But that would be ruin.” 

“How so?” 

“I suppose you know that you and I are watched and 
followed by the spies of this fellow, Loring?” 

“I do not care.” 

“But I do. Can you not wait till after one o’clock to- 
morrow night? Then, if you creep quietly out and keep in 
the shadows, you will find me awaiting you directly in 
front of the Mormon Church. I shall have a native guide 
along, who can take us so as to avoid the guards, and 
within an hour you will be with your husband. What say 
you?” 

“I say yes; but if he were not a prisoner he would 
come to me. All the thrones in the world could not keep 
Kohala from me if he were free.” 

“I cannot explain all to you now. But it is under- 
stood that, till you see me again, you do not tell a soul 
what has passed between us ; and, in the next place, that 
you will meet me at the hour named in front of the Mor- 
mon Church, which, you know, is only a short distance 
away. You may remember you were curious to hear 
the service, and I took you there one night?” 

Marguerite nodded, and after fully a minute’s hesita- 
tion, as if lie were debating whether to say anything 
further or not, Featherstone bowed stiffly and left the 
house. 

Kohala owned a fine house in Honolulu, and here he 
and Featherstone lived together since he returned from 
abroad; there were good servants and an excellent 
stable attached to the establishment, and these the cap- 
tain continued to enjoy during, the absence of their 
owner. 

After leaving Mrs. Holmes he went directly to this 
house, and his first act was to order in a bottle of brandy 
and some soda. He filled a goblet with a great deal of 
the former and very little of the latter, and drained it 
off without taking it from his lips. Then he lit a cigar, 
poured out some more brandy so as to have it within 
reach, dropped into a dining-room chair and shot out 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


153 


a string of oaths, intended, no doubt, to relieve his over- 
wrought feelings. 

As the reader must have already surmised, with the 
reasons for the same, it was Featherstone who caused 
Kohala to be abducted immediately in front of his wife’s 
cottage, and conveyed in a closed carriage to a secluded 
1 louse far up the long valley that leads to the Pali’s 
bloody cliffs, some eight miles from Honolulu. 

featherstone did not appear directly in this enter- 
prise ; he was far too shrewd for that ; and tools suitable 
for his purpose, both white and brown, could be had at 
the lowest market rates for any such work as that. 

f'eathers tone’s plan was really very adroit. He pro- 
posed, with Marguerite to help him, to play the part of 
a brave liberator. But before he permitted — or, rather. 
Marguerite permitted — Kohala to return to Honolulu, 
Kohala, for her sake, would be induced to issue his pro- 
nunciamento, declaring himself King of Hawaii. 

All this was now relegated to the impossibilities, and 
the all-important and difficult question presented to 
Featherstone ’s mind was how to save himself when 
the ine^'itable exposure came. 

He smoked with such energy that he sat amid a cloud. 
He was a man fertile in resources, and no tenderness of 
conscience ever barred him from a scheme that prom- 
ised success by illegal methods. 

The woman had deceived him, and he cursed her for 
it. It would have gladdened his savage heart to see her 
dead at his feet. 

He reasoned that she would keep her promise of si- 
lence, and that she would meet him, as agreed. What 
if she and Kohala were never seen again? People would 
say they had eloped in some strange way. What if their 
dead bodies were found together, with an emptj^ pistol 
clutched in Kohala’s hand? People would say it was 
the romantic and insane end of two foolish lovers. 


154 


KOHALA'OF HAWAII. 


CHAPTER XX. 

BLAKE GETS ON THE TRAIL. 

For prudential reasons, Colonel Ellis and others who 
had a tender interest in the fate of Kohala, kept from 
the knowledge of the public the fact that he was miss- 
ing ; and the two daily, papers, though fully appreciat- 
ing the importance, as a matter of news, of the death, 
abduction or desertion of the young man, made no al- 
lusion to him in their columns. 

The men whom Blake assigned to search the different 
sections of the city he had mapped out reported to him, 
one by one, each being forced to confess that his mission 
had been a failure, for the missing man had left no more 
sign than if the earth had opened in the darkness and 
swallowed him up, leaving no scar as a reminder on its 
surface. 

This goes to prove how careful and complete had been 
Featherstone’s plans. Indeed, Blake’s suspicions as to 
this man’s connection with the matter were the result 
of intuition rather than of reason. 

After he had lost all hope of finding Kohala by means 
of the search he. had instituted Blake sought out Colonel 
Ellis and said : 

“I am going to let all the men go back to their com- 
mands and take up this matter by myself.” 

“But what are you going to do?” asked Colonel Ellis, 
whose anxiety for the safety of Kohala had preyed on 
him more than all the cares of the revolution and the 
burdens that followed it. 

“I want Colonel Loring” — Loring was present — “to 
give me a leave of absence for as long as I may want 
it.” 

“I shall write it out now,” said Colonel Loring, and he 
pulled up to the table and dashed off the following : 

“Headquarters Provisional Army of Hawaii: 

To whom it may concern— The bearer. First Lieutenant 
Harry Blake, is detailed for special service by me, and 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


155 


all officers and enlisted men connected with this com- 
mand are hereby instructed to as5ist Lieutenant Blake 
in such manner as he may require or request. 

“Arthur Loring, Colonel Commanding.” 

“I don’t think I shall call upon my comrades for much 
help,” said Blake, as he folded up the paper and put it 
away in his ample breast-pocket. “This is to be a still 
hunt. One doesn’t go gunning for wild ducks with a 
brass band, as we used to say in the States.” 

After leaving headquarters Blake went to a public- 
house down near the pier of the Union Steamship Com- 
pany, and here, in a back room, he found Phipps, sober, 
or, rather, comparatively so, for he was in that taciturn 
state of inebriety when he might be said to be at his 
best. 

Phipj)S, for State reasons and not because he had any 
fondness for the woman, had been very attentive to Clem 
of late, and it was through him and in consideration of 
Colonel Ellis’s bribes, that she was induced to tell all she 
knevy about her mistress and to adorn her facts through 
her imagination, in order to give what she considered 
full measure for value received. 

“Phipps,” said Blake, as he handed the Irishman a cigar 
and lit another himself, “I want you to help me.” 

“I’m ready,” said Phipps. 

“You know Mrs. Clem?” 

“Faith, I do.” 

“And you don’t love her?” 

“Love lier !” 

“Yes,” 

“Do I look like a natoral born fool?” 

“Far from it, Phipps.” 

“Then don’t insult a man of my taste.” 

“But you’ve been sweet on her.” 

“Mebby so; but be the same token, I’d be sweet on 
Owld Nick’s grandmotlier, if it would only help to annex 
these islands to the great United States,” said Phipps, 
with energy. 

“I think you told me that this Mrs. Clem is attached 
to Featherstone?” 


156 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“And, sure, she should be; doesn’t he pay her for it?” 

“How much does he pay her?” 

“I don’t know. But why do you ask?” 

“Because Featherstone called on Mrs. Holmes to-day, 
and if it was possible, you may depend on it that Mrs. 
Clem overheard their conversation, and that they spoke 
about the man we want to find.” 

“Ah, be gob, I see !” said Phipps, closing one eye. 

“I was sure you would. Now, it is near dark, and you 
can find Mrs. Clem and have a private chat with her 
without exciting attention. Go to her as soon as you 
can and learn everything you can about this meeting 
and report it to me at this place at nine o’clock. If 
you need money let me know, and you can have all 
you want.” 

“I’ll keep an account of ixpenses, but I have all I want 
for the present,” said Phipps, and, full of his purpose, 
he started off, for it was now dusk, and the lamps and 
electric lights were burning as brightly as in the hap- 
piest days of Honolulu. 

Promptly at nine o’clock Phipps returned and made 
his M'^ay to the little back room where he last saw Blake. 
The only occupant of the place now was a native fisher- 
man, dressed in a blouse and straw hat and loose cotton 
trousers, and with the long black hair and smooth brown 
face that distinguish his class. 

“Faith, I thought I’d be afther seein’ Mr. Blake here,” 
said Phipps, as, with a disgusted look at the Kanaka, he 
was about to retreat. 

“Ml. Blake is here.” 

Phipps started. It could not be that brown man with 
the half-closed eyes who had so perfectly imitated the 
voice of his friend. 

“Did you spake to me?” he said, addressing himself 
to the native. 

“I did.” And then, with a dumb laugh, Blake— for 
he it was — rose and gave Phipps his hand. 

“Well, begorra, you take the cake !” said Phipps, step- 
ping back and examining the disguise with intense ad- 
miration and many strong but unquotable expressions 
of surprise. “Sure, your own mother wouldn’t know 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


157 


you if she was to clap her two eyes on you this blessed 
minute.” 

“If any one else should come in, Phipps, or if you 
should chance to see me on the street in this disguise, 
you must not know me.” 

“No, not from a side of sole leather.” 

“And now tell me what you have done,” said Blake, 
sinking his voice to the pitch he wanted the other to 
imitate. 

“I didn’t larn much, for Mrs. Clem was as close as a 
clam. Featherstone owns her, body and soul. She said 
him and the little woman had a row to-day, and that it 
isn’t over by a long shot. And, after much coaxin’, she 
gave me her word of honor as a lady — just think of that, 
Mr. Blake ! — that she believed the young gentleman we 
are so anxious to find is alive and well.” 

“How did she learn that?” 

“She didn’t say.” 

“It was not from her mistress?” 

“No. I’m most sure of that.” 

“Then, Phipps, she must have overheard Featherstone 
saying so.” 

“That’s my belief.” 

“Good; you have found out all I want to know. If 
you could get Clem to drink a little wine to-night she 
might be more communicative; suppose you try it, 
PhijDps.” 

“All right, Mr. Blake; and may you have the same 
good luck as a Kanaka that you always had as a white 
man,” and, with this, the two men shook hands and 
parted. 

Blake was so confident of his disguise that he took no 
pains to keep in the shadows, but sauntered through the 
streets with the inevitable cheroot between his lips, and 
evidently indifferent to the eager groups discussing the 
situation before the bars. 

He passed the building where the sailors from the 
American warship were quartered, and he watched with 
some interest a man fastening, over the circular arch of 
the gateway leading into the grounds, a signboard, on 


158 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


which, in gold and black letters, was the legend : “Camp 
Boston.” 

Not an arrow-shot away was Kohala's house, in which 
he knew Featherstone still lived. Although it was a warm 
night tlie shutters were closed and the curtains were 
drawn ; but they did not entirely conceal the glow that 
told there was a light on the other side, with some one to 
enjoy it. 

Blake knew that the servants here were all men and 
natives and that they were devoted to Kohala, for they 
had been brought over to wait on him from his planta- 
tion in Hawaii after his return from abroad. But as 
they were a single-minded lot, and could have been 
easily influenced by Featherstone, he thought it ad. 
visable not to communicate with them directly. 

He went back to the stable, directed thither by the 
low iiurn of voices, and he succeeded in secreting him- 
self so as to be able to overhear all that was being said 
without attracting attention. 

Blake was interested to learn that the subject upper- 
most in his mind was the one that agitated the men at 
the stable. In hushed and almost tearful voices they 
discussed the absence of their master, and one of them, 
evidently voicing the sentiments of his companions, 
said : 

“If our master does not come back in two more suns 
I shall run off and make my way home to my wife in 
Hawaii. I do not like this white man, and my heart 
would be lighter if he was away and Kohala was here.” 

“This was said in the Hawaiian tongue, otherwise 
Featherstone, who had advanced from the house through 
the darkness without being seen and with as little noise 
as if he were a shadow, must have heard this opinion of 
himself. 

Addressing the group of men, who huddled together 
as if frightened as soon as they became aware of his 
presence, Featherstone said : 

“I am going away, and may not be back till near day- 
light. Do you hear me, Kam?” 

“Ye— yes, sa, I heah yo’,” said one of the men, with 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


159 


an accent very much like that of a plantation negro in 
the Cotton States. 

Kam was Kohala’s major-domo, a big, gentle, single- 
hearted fellow, who, till the return of his young master, 
had never been off the great sugar plantation on Hawaii 
since he was born there, thirty-five years before. 

“And, Kam?” 

“Yes, sa.” 

■ “Don’t leave the house.” 

“Oh, no, sa; I no leave.” 

“And if any one calls and asks for me you tell them 
I am asleep and feeling very sick. Do you understand 
that, Kam?” 

“Oh, yes, sa; I on’stan’,” said the man. 

Blake, who was crouching close up against the stable 
wall, expected to hear Featherstone saying something 
that would indicate his departure, but he could not 
catch even the fall of his feet. He had evidently gone 
as quickly and mysteriously as he had come, and the 
natives must have known it, for they resumed their 
low-voiced use of their liquid, full-voweled mother 
tongue. 

Featherstone had gone, not back to the house cer- 
tainly, but in what direction Blake was, for the instant, 
at a loss to determine. 

Again that peculiar intuition, that does not come 
through reasoning, but which, no matter how mani- 
fested, is genius, came to Blake’s help. With a sense 
as fine and acute as the bloodhound’s, and which led 
him, instead of his directing it, he sprang lightly and 
noiselessly over the hedge and into the street. Without 
an instant’s hesitation he turned his back to the city’s 
lights and started out the street that led to the Punch 
Bowl, or which, for some distance, might be taken by 
those walking or driving to the great Pali Cliff. 

There was nothing ahead, nothing behind him, noth- 
ing in sight to impel him to this course, yet he was as 
sure of his ground as if the midday sun were blazing 
down on the form of Featherstone a few paces in the 
advance. 

Blake knew that Featherstone, like most Englishmen, 


160 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


was an excellent pedestrian, and that once he was out- 
side the city’s limits and where there was no necessity 
for care he w^ould walk with great rapidity; but in 
that the man on his trail was quite his equal, in ad- 
dition to having superior powers of endurance. 

It did not take Blake long to leave the city behind 
him, and a silent, deserted road in front. Here and 
there, to the right and left, he could see a light in the 
little frame house of a Portuguese gardener, that indus- 
trious and thrifty people owning and cultivating much 
of the land on either side of the road along which lie 
sped. 

He wore felt shoes that were even more noiseless in 
their fall tlian the bare feet would have been. Now and 
then Blake stopped to listen, sometimes placing his ear 
to the ground, like an Indian on the trail who knov's 
that the solid earth is a better conductor of sound than 
the air. 

After each examination Blake hurried on with m- 
creased speed, which was an assurance of his increasing 
confidence. 

At length, and after having gone over a distance at 
least two miles from the city’s limit, he slackened his 
pace and advanced with greater caution. 

It was a clear, starlit night, and the air was as still 
as if it had gone to sleep, so that even the droning of 
an occasional beetle or the whiz of a passing bat made 
a loud and disturbing noise. 

The pawing and impatient snorting of horses at a halt 
at length brought Blake’s cautious advance to a stop. 

He was about to move on again in the direction of the 
animals — they miglit have strayed into the highway from 
their pastures — when he heard the penetrating, sibilant 
whispering*of men in front. 

Down on hands and knees he dropped and crept rapidly 
forward till he was within twenty feet of the men, whose 
dark forms could be seen against the stars as they stood 
beside their horses. 

“Very well, Pedro, we can discuss this as we go on. 
Mount, my man, for there is no time to lose.’’ 

Blake recognized Featherstone’s voice. From the name 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


161 


“Pedro” he inferred that the" other man was a Portu- 
guese. He had just reached this conclusion, and was 
deploring the fact that he was on foot, when the two 
men sprang into their saddles with the ease of skilled 
horsemen and galloped away in the direction of the 
Pali. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

KOHALA ’S SITUATION. 

The plan to kidnap Kohala was not made on the spur 
of the moment. For a long time Featherstone had 
thought of it as an alternative to which he might be 
forced in the event of the Americans deposing the Queen. 

Through his emissaries, the night of the revolution, he 
kept track of the young man from the time’he went to 
the rendezvous where the troops under Colonel Loring 
assembled up to the minute that he was sent with the 
message to Colonel Ellis at the Hawaiian Hotel. 

The looked-for opportunity came just when Kohala, 
disappointed at not finding Marguerite Holmes at home, 
left the cottage and turned into the dark street encum- 
bered with the building material of the new Episcopal 
church, which prevented its being a thoroughfare at 
night. 

Featherstone had a closed carriage in waiting, and he 
was inside the carriage when two masked men, with 
pistols in their right hands, forced Kohala inside. 

Featherstone was playing the part of prisoner. He 
had been seized in the same way, so he told Kohala, 
and what the outcome of it was to be he did not know ; 
but he was sure that the Americans were at the bottom 
of the outrage and that he was made a victim because 
he was the friend of Kohala, whom they wanted to get 
out of the way so that there might be no obstacle to their 
scheme of annexation. 

“But,” said Featherstone, as the carriage, with the 
blinds pulled down, sped out of the illuminated streets 


162 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


and into the dark country, “I have always been ready 
to lay down iny life for you, and if it comes to that now 
I shall not flinch from the sacrifice; all I ask is that 
they save yourself so that some day you may inlierit 
your rights.” 

Kohala believed this implicitly, and more worldly men, 
finding themselves in the same position, would have 
shown the same credulity. 

He believed that the captain was a prisoner, and lie 
regretted it more than he did the danger that threatened 
himself, for his friend’s suffering was because of his 
fidelity, and Kohala had a royal appreciation of this 
quality. 

Of late he had not felt as warmly toward Featherstone 
as he did before their coming to Hawaii. 

He did not like his monarchical tendencies ; but, above 
all, he did not like the familiar way in which he spoke 
of Marguerite Holmes. But now, with youthful gener- 
osity, he chided himself for ever having harbored an un- 
kind thought of this noble and devoted friend. 

It should be said that as soon as Kohala was seized his 
pistol was taken from him, and he was threatened with 
instant death if he made an outcry or attempted to es- 
cape. Featherstone had the same story to tell, and he 
gave it as his opinion that tlie purpose of their captors 
vras to hold them for a ransom. 

“Though,” he said, with his mouth close to Kohala’s 
ear as the carriage rolled on, “it may be that tliese men 
are your warmest adherents, and that their purpose is 
to get you away from tlie influence of the Americans 
and make you King of Hawaii in spite of yourself.” 

To tiiis Kohala made no response. He knew that the 
men who made liim prisoner were Portuguese, and he 
believed that the Queen’s party were responsible for the 
outrage. 

After two hours’ rapid driving the road became so 
rough that the horses were brought down to a walk, and 
then Kohala learned, from the sounds behind, that they 
were being followed by two mounted men. 

The beating of branches against the carriage roof and 
the crashing under the wheels and the horses’ feet told 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


163 


that they were going through a dense underbrush and 
over a route that had not been much traveled. 

It was to Kohala, who was consumed by curiosity 
rather than fear, as if the sun had gone down for the 
last time. It seemed an age since he had parted from 
Colonel Ellis and a year of black torture since he had 
entered this jolting vehicle. 

At length the carriage halted, and the barking of a 
pack of curs told that they were in the neighborhood 
of a house, a fact that was soon confirmed by the flashing 
of lights and the stamping of many feet on a wide piazza. 

A man with a perforated tin lantern came to the car- 
riage door, and, pulling it open, he said, with a foreign 
accent : 

“This is the place, gentlemen; get out.” 

They were conducted into the house, which, though 
in a state of decay, looked as if it had at one time been 
a place of some pretensions. 

“Now, gentlemen,” said the man with the lantern, “I 
can assure you both that if you remain quiet and make 
no attempt to get away you will be kindly treated. We 
must keep you in separate rooms, and you need not be 
afraid of sleeping till you are entirely rested.” 

“May I ask why you have brought us here?” asked 
Kohala. 

“You are free to ask any questions you choose; but 
to-night, at least, you will get no answers,” said the man 
with the lantern. 

Kohala was conducted to a bedroom in a wing of the 
building ; but as he shook hands with Featherstone, who 
saw fit to affect depression, he whispered to him : 

“Do not lose heart, captain ; depend on it, our friends 
will bo sure to find us and all will be well again.” 

As soon as Kohala had been taken out of sight and 
hearing Featherstone burst into a fit of laughter, and, 
grasping the hand of the man who had been officiating 
with the lantern, he said : 

“Well, Pedro, old man, that worked like a charm. 
Never saw anything neater since I was born. Come, let 
us celebrate the event with a stiff glass of brandy, and 


164 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


be quick about it, for I must be home and in my little 
bed before daylight.” 

“Pedro was evidently the master of the establishment 
and the father of the pretty dark-eyed girl who brought 
in the brandy and water, and whom Featherstone tried 
to compliment by saying she was fit to be the wife of 
a king, and adding : 

“And who knows but you may be a queen yet, sweet 
Annetta.” 

The girl laughed and showed her white teeth in a way 
that told her delight with the flattery. She evidently 
knew that her father and Featherstone wished to be alone, 
for as soon as she had set the liquor and glasses before 
them she bowed and withdrew. 

“Now, Pedro,” said Featherstone, after they had 
drained their glasses and he had risen and was buttoning 
up his coat, “remember we are playing for big stakes.” 

“Trust me not to forget,” said Pedro, with a knowing 
shake of the bushy, black head and an uninviting exhi- 
bition of tobacco-stained teeth. 

“Take good care of our young friend and see that he 
does not get out of your sight. Of course, he will want 
to know why he is held here, and, of course, you will 
impress on him the fact that you are acting under 
orders and that it is for his own good and safety.” 

“Oh, I understand all that. If there’s any mistake, 
captain, it won’t be through me. I don’t swear and 
bluster like you English and Americans, but I think and 
I act,” and Pedro tapped his forehead and winked one 
eye to show that he thought himself quite as quick and 
clever as he did the man advising him. 

With a perfect understanding as to what was to be 
done in the case of expected and unexpected emergencies 
Featherstone went out to the carriage in which he and 
Kohala had come and was driven back to the city. 

The bedroom in which Kohala found himself was, or, 
rather, had been, elaborately furnished. But the great 
four-poster bed, with its yellow canopy and torn mus- 
quito netting, the chairs with the upholstery stained 
and ragged, the heavy curtains that suggested insect 
flights and dust clouds if they were touched, and the 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


165 


floor, covered with faded Turkish rugs, all bespoke a 
day of luxury, if not of taste, that had long since de- 
parted. Kohala was something of a fatalist; perhaps 
it would describe him more accurately to say he was 
a philosopher. He realized that he was tired, and that 
neither freting nor personal effort could better his situa- 
tion, so he wisely took of his coat and boots, extin- 
guished the light and threw himself on the bed. 

It was an occasion, if ever one had come in his life, 
when he could not fairly be charged with selfishness if 
he gave all his thoughts to the situation in which he was 
placed and the dangers that unquestionably threatened 
him ; but instead, he thought of Marguerite, the wife 
whom he had not seen since the hour when they were 
married, and he, with his joyous secret locked close in 
his heart, started off to visit the woman to whom he 
had been betrothed without his own consent. 

As he thought it over he became more and mbre con- 
vinced that he had done an unwise thing in keeping 
his secret from Colonel Ellis ; but never, from first to 
last, did he regret the act that made the woman he 
loved his wife. Had it not been for his capture he 
would have told Colonel Ellis what he had done the 
morning following the revolution, and if the colonel 
and others objected, as he expected they would do, 
he was resolved to sell out his property and take his 
wife to any country she preferred, for no matter where 
it might be between the Equator and the Poles he felt 
he would be happy with her. 

All his love for Hawaii, and his readiness to aid 
her through any sacrifice but one, remained. In one 
thing, his marriage, in which he was himself the most 
profoundly interested, he could not, as a free man, 
permit others to interfere; and who will say that he 
was not right? 

From thoughts of Marguerite he gradually drifted off 
into dreams of her, and sleep accomplished what would 
have been impossible to him if awake, for it brought her 
to his side. 

When he awoke the sun was shining in through the 
faded curtains, and an old, wrinkled woman, Pedro's 


166 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


mother, was moving about the room like a sprightly, 
light-footed ghost that by some means had got into 
the wrong body. 

As soon as the old woman saw that the young man 
was awake she darted out of the room, as if alarmed 
at the sight; but in less than a minute she was back 
again with a little plaited tray on which was a cup of 
coffee and some crackers. 

“Eat some, then you feel good.” Having said this, 
the old woman sat down the tray and again darted out. 

Kohala dressed, by putting on his coat and pulling on 
his boots, then he went to one of the two windows, and, 
pushing back the faded curtains, looked out. 

The prospect was not inviting. A high hill shut out 
the view a few hundred yards awa}'". A few scraggy 
palms, towering over a great expanse of that curse of 
the islands, yellow lantana, looked as if they had strayed 
up from the shore and were hopelessly lost. There 
were lemon and orange trees, sadly in need of prun- 
ing, near the house, and some sickly decorative plants 
and flowers that looked as if they had grown weary 
of the struggle for existence under the most depressing 
difficulties. 

He saw a number of lean yellow curs and draggle- 
tailed chickens scurrying through the weeds, and he 
heard in the distance the neighing of a horse. 

He was about to let the curtains fall and turn back 
to the coffee when two villainous-looking men, with 
heavy black beards and long black hair, came to view, 
and, as they halted for consultation under a palm, one 
of them drew a long knife from his belt and gave an 
outlet to his energy by slashing into the bark. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A PLACE OF MANY MYSTERIES. 

The man who never knows fear cannot be truthfully 
called a ’orave man. He only is brave who, despite his 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


167 


fear of the danger, resolutely dares to face it. The sight 
of the man under the palm was not calculated to allay the 
suspicions of Kohala as to the difficulties that environed 
him ; yet, even when he saw that the men noticed him 
and moved away, as if annoyed at their discovery, his 
color did not change nor did his heart beat faster. 

When the men had disappeared in the jungle of under- 
brush Kohala stepped back and drank his coffee and ate 
the crackers without any sign of agitation. 

He found appliances for washing and combing his hair, 
though they were newer and cheaper, and so not in 
keeping with the furnishings of the dingy old apart- 
ment. 

He had finished brushing his wavy black hair when 
he heard a rap at the door, and, before he could speak 
the “come in” that rose to his lips, it was opened, and 
Annetta, looking like a bacchante, with a wreath of 
crimson flowers about her blue-black hair, entered, and, 
with a blush that added to the healthy beauty of her 
face and a bow that told she was not versed in that 
manner of salutation, she said : 

“May it please Your Majesty, breakfast is ready.” 

“Majesty !” repeated Kohala, with amused surprise, 
“why, my young friend, I am not a king.” 

“No, sir,” said Annetta, with more confidence, “but 
you can be one whenever you say the word, and that’s 
the same thing.” 

“It may be — and then it may not ; but we will let that 
pass. What is your name?” 

“Annetta.” 

“Annetta what?” 

“Just Annetta, if Your Majesty pleases.” 

“Have you a father?” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” 

“What is his name?” 

“Pedro, may it please you.” 

“Pedro what?” 

“That is all, sir.” 

“No surname?” 

“I do not know what that is.” 

“What is your nationality?” 


168 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“I do not know.” 

“Where were you born?” 

“In Honolulu.” 

“And your father?” 

“He is a Portuguese.” 

“What is the name of this place?’ 

“May it please Your Majesty, it has none.” 1 

“Upon my word,” said Kohala, with a laugh that 
seemed to fascinate the girl, “you appear to have a j 
mysterious dearth of names here. But you said some- 
thing about breakfast.” 

‘'Yes, Your Majesty.” 

“Why do you call me ‘Your Majesty’?” 

“Because I was told to do so.” 

“By whom?” 

“My father.” 

“Does he own this place?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Is he here?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Where is he?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Well, Annetta, I shall not try further to exhaust your 
information, though I am sorry to see it is sadly limited 
in the directions that most interest me.” 

The girl had evidently been instructed as to what she 
must do and say, for she held the door open for Kohala 
to pass out, and, as soon as he had done so, she darted 
ahead and led him into a little apartment that showed 
signs of having been recently fitted up as a private din- 
ing-room. 

He found the table set for one. He expected to see 
Featherstone, for the true state of aiTairs never dasvned 
on him, and as he was not there, he asked Annetta the 
reason, and was answered by a shrug of the slioulders 
and the same “I do not know, sir.” 

Kohala made no further investigations. The break- 
fast was ample, varied and well-cooked and served, 
Annetta being the only person he saw during the meal. 

As soon as he had finished breakfast his pretty attend- 
ant, who seemed delighted to be able to wait on him. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


1G9 


red him into still another apartment off the dining- 
i^oom, and said : 

“This is Your Majesty's parlor, and you will find 
good cigars on the table, and there is wine over in that 
closet, and some books in the one near it, if Your Maj 
esty cares to read. And if you should want anything 
further please to ring this little bell and I shall come to 
you, for I will be in waiting in the next room and anx- 
ious to serve you.” 

Having delivered herself of this little speech, wiiicli 
sounded as if she had repeated it over before and was 
not quite certain of the part, Annetta bowed again, 
blushed becomingly and was about to leave, vdien Ko- 
hala called to her : 

“Wait a moment. xVnnetta. ” 

“Yes, Y'our Majesty,” and she turned and bowed, as 
if that, too, were something she had been instructed not 
to forget in her intercourse with the young man. 

“Amu treat me as if I were a prince.” 

“And so you are. Your Majesty.” 

“Then I must be a free man and so at liberty to walk 
about these grounds as I choose. ” Seeing that she looked 
doubting and confused, he added; “But perhaps I am 
a prisoner? If so, I have no fault to find with my 
jailer, though I can’t say so much for my captors.” 

Annetta did not understand liis compliment, but she 
never lost sight of the part that had been assigned her. 

“If Yonv Majesty pleases,” she said, “it wiU be better 
that you should remain in tlie house.” 

“In what way better?” 

“It will be safer.” 

“Then there is danger outside?” 

“A^es, A^our Majesty.” 

“Guards?” 

“Oh, yes, but — ” 

“But what, Annetta? Speak out.” 

“If A" our Majesty were to go outside and any liarm 
were to come to you the blame would fall on me.” 

“Wlio would blame you?” 

“I cannot tell you names.” 

“Very well. Can you tell me where the gentleman is 


170 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


who was brought here a prisoner with me last night?” ' 

“I cannot.” 

“You are ordered not to : is that it?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

“But you can tell me, surely, if he is living and well?” 

“He is living and well. Your Majesty,” and fearing 
to say more, if, indeed, she had not already said too 
much, Annetta left the room. 

Kohala lit a cigar — it was a good one— and feeling 
that the only wise course left him was to remain quiet 
and await developments, he got a book out of the closet 
and threw himself on the sofa. His getting the book 
was the result of habit, for he never looked into it, but 
laid it on his breast, closed his eyes, and, with his fingers 
interlocked about his head, he gave free rein to his specu- 
lations. 

Now and then he rose and took a turn about the room, 
or looked out through the grimy windows at the dreary 
prospect outside ; but he never did so without seeing the 
two men whom he first noticed under the palm that 
morning. 

The fact that the men who took his pistol from him 
the night before left him his wallet and watch convinced 
him that they were not ordinary robbers, though he did 
not lose sight of the fact that it was in their power to get 
possession of these articles any time they wanted them. 

His watch had never been such company nor had he 
ever consulted it so often before in the same space of 
time. He was looking at its face and saw it was one 
o’clock when Annetta again came in to tell him that 
luncheon awaited him in the adjoining room. 

“You are very kind, Annetta,” he said; “but I am 
sorry to have troubled you, for I do not feel at all 
hungry.” 

“Is Your Majesty ill?” she asked, with unaffected 
anxiety. 

“Could you expect any man to feel well in my position, 
Annetta? Would you feel well and happy if you were 
in my place?” 

Her lips trembled and she hesitated, then she said, 
though it evidently was not what she had intended saying : 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


171 


“If you will not go to luncheon, then there are some 
men who would like to speak with Your Majesty." 

“Who are they?" 

“They are your friends, but I cannot tell their names. " 

“Very well, Annetta, in Heaven’s name show them in, 
and if there is any ‘worst’ to this thing they may be 
able to tell me what it is." 

Annetta went to the door, whispered to some one out- 
side, then the cracked voice of the old woman was heard 
calling to a third party, in a language Kohala did not 
understand, and this was followed by the tramping of 
heavily shod feet on a bare wooden floor. 

The tramping came nearer, and Kohala looked up to 
see five men entering the room, with Pedro, whom he 
recognized as the man who had carried the lantern, at 
their head. The young man noticed, further, that his 
visitors all had big black beards of exactly the same cut, 
and as these appendages did not match their hair and 
faces, he came to the conclusion that they were assumed 
for the purpose of disguise. 

Kohala rose, and his visitors respectfully stood before 
him in line, with tlieir eyes fixed humbly on the hats 
which they held in their hands. 

“Your Majesty," began Pedro, “we are all your true, 
good friends, and we’ve come here to talk with you and 
to tell you that it’s because we love you that we took you 
away last night from people — from the Americans — that 
we know are your enemies.” 

“I suppose I should feel veiy grateful to you for this 
extremely thoughtful precaution," said Kohala, his sar- 
casm entirely wasted on the men before him, “and par- 
ticularly in showing me that the peoi:)le I have been 
regarding as friends are, in truth, my enemies. Of 
course, you have informed the Americans that you 
brought me here and why you did it?" 

Not at all abasiied by this, Pedro replied : 

“No, we liaven’t; there’ll be plenty of time to act 
when Your Majesty gives the word." 

“But I am not a majesty," said Kohala, with less 
patience than he had shown to Annetta when she ad- 
dressed liim in the sanifi way. 


172 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“No; but you will be a king as soon as you say the 
word, and that’s why we are here,” said Pedro, wuth 
the confident manner of a man sure of his ground. 

“But whom do you represent?” 

“We represent the foreign element on these islands; 
and outside^ waiting to see Your Majesty, are a score of 
Hawaiians, who represent a large majority of all the 
natives.” 

“And what is your purpose and theirs?” 

“We want you to proclaim your rights.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We know, and Your Majesty knows, you are the 
rightful sovereign of Hawaii. You may not want to 
be king, but the people want it, and you owe it to them 
to speak out.” 

“I might as well have it over with both parties at 
once,” said Kohala. “Show my countrymen in.” 

“Before doing that. Your Majesty, and before making 
up your mind, which it’s necessary to be careful about, 
it is right that I should tell you that if you refuse the 
wishes of these people who are so ready to lay down their 
lives for you, that they may come to look on you as a 
traitor to their cause, and then I would not want to be 
responsible for what they may do, ” said Pedro. 

There was no misunderstanding this. It presented the 
case to Kohala in an entirely new, and by no means an 
alluring, aspect. 

Whether the men in the room or the natives waiting 
outside represented the elements they claimed to or no, 
Kohala felt that they wore desperate— his own capture 
warranted that belief— and that if he did not comply 
or seem to comply with their demands he might be dis- 
posed of, as had one of his ancestors a few generations 
back. 

He had sufficient self-command to conceal his nervous- 
ness and the quickness of thought that under such cir- 
cumstances is a mark of true greatness. 

“Show in my countrymen,” he said, “and let us talk 
like friends.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


173 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A TRYING SITUATION. 


Although lie had seen much of the world in a geo- 
graphical sense, Kohala was a child in his judgment of 
men, and, like all guileless and impulsive natures, he 
was induenced by exteriors and inclined to believe that 
all men — at least, those to whom he gave his esteem — 
were as honest and truthful as himself. 

He saw, or thought he saw, the reason for his being 
abducted from Honolulu, and so, while he could not 
reconcile himself to the treatment, he regarded it with 
less indignation when he came to think that it was done 
for what these devoted but mistaken people thought to 
be for his own good. 

Not so much to avert the danger that might threaten 
himself as to save his friends from excesses that might 
result in their own ruin, Kohala made up his mind not 
to oppose them ; but at the same time not to commit 
himself to a course which, if followed out on the lines 
of its initiation, would defeat its own purpose. 

He could not know that Pedro and his countrymen, 
entirely indifferent to the form of government in Hawaii, 
were working for the reward which, in addition to a 
gaarantee, Featlierstone was to pay them in the event 
of success. 

Delighted and surprised at Kohala’s frankness, Pedro 
suggested that they adjourn to the large dining-room 
where tliere would be space for the whole party to 
assemble. 

This being agreed to, Kohala was escorted to a larger 
room near by, the antique furniture of which told of 
better and cleaner days. Annetta escorted in the natives, 
not one of whom Kohala could recall having ever seen 
before; but they looked to be respectable, earnest men, 
and they saluted him, as was the custom of. old in salut- 
ing a king, by touching their right hands to the ground 
and then laying them on their bowed heads. 

Kohala was given a large chair at the head of the 


174 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


table, and, as there were not chairs enough, the others 
stood up in a line about the wail. 

The silence that followed was becoming embarrassing 
when Pedro, who stood at the foot of the table, and 
who, as proprietor of the place, if not from his belief 
in his own superior intelligence, appointed himself mas- 
ter of ceremonies, said, for the benefit of the newcomers : 

“I have told Kohala of Hawaii that, as we have no 
longer a queen and do not want the Americans to rule 
us, that we now regard him as our king, quite as much 
as if we saw him seated on the throne established by his 
great ancestor, Kamehameha, in Honolulu.” 

The black eyes of the natives took in fire while Pedro 
was speaking, and at the conclusion they threw up tlieir 
arms like one man and shouted till the old rafters rang 
with the echoes : 

“Long live Kohala of Hawaii I” 

A tall native with iron-gray hair, an erect figure and 
a scar across his bronzed brow that added to his military 
aspect, advanced to the foot of the table, and, after bow- 
ing very low to Kohala, cast a quick glance at his com- 
panions, as if to invoke their attention, and said, with 
the voice and manner of a natural born orator : 

^‘Last night messengers from Keona of Hawaii came 
to this island of Oahu to get the voice of the people and 
to learn how many of us were ready to renounce Queen 
Liliuokalani and to give allegiance to Kohala. I speak 
only for those whom I know, and in my sixty years of 
life, during which our people have dwindled to one-lialf, 
I think I can say I know all the living and remember the 
many dead of those many seasons. 

“The Queen is of our race, yet she shows her contempt 
for us by marrying Dominis, a white man, and, except 
the few wdio feed on her crumbs, we do not like her; 
and now that she is down, we rejoice in her fall, though 
no native hand w^as raised to bring it about, and w^e can 
never submit to the rule of the white men who have de- 
throned her.' 

“I remember the day when Kohala was born in Ha- 
waii, for I was then in the employ, as a herdsman, of 
the great chief, his father. There was much rejoicing 


KOHaLA of HAWAII. 


175 


among the people on the pastures and on the planta- 
tions that day, and they said, one to the other: ‘Cour- 
age, for the child is born who will yet save us, and, from 
the throne of the great Conqueror, make us happy. ’ • 

“I recall the night, in the sacred cavern up by the 
lake of fire, when Kohala of Hawaii was betrothed to 
the little daughter of the chief Keona. When the sun 
rose in the morning it saw us feasting by the sea, and 
the maidens danced and sang about the flower bowers 
where slept the children on whom our future depended. 

“Since that day we have watched and prayed for Ko- 
hala. We did not like it when, as a boy, he went be- 
yond the great world of waters from which the sim 
rises ; but we became reconciled when we reasoned that 
there lay the land of the white man and that there our 
prince would learn the ways that have made the white 
man our master and use them so that we should become, 
at least, his equal. 

“Since Kohala’s return there has come to us the story 
that lie, too, would wed among the whites; but we did 
not, we could not believe it, for we knew his race and 
that the son would die ere he broke the pledge of the 
father. 

“And now we have come to council with our prince, 
who needs but to say the word and he will be our king. 
Swift runners await within call to spread the news of 
his^ declaration through Oahu, and boats with lowered 
sails await the messengers who are to carry the glad 
tidings to our sister islands. If we would succeed 
there is no time to lose. A minute’s hesitation may 
be fatal. What says Kohala of Hawaii?” 

There was no mistaking this man’s earnestness, and 
had he made no allusion to marriage Kohala might have 
been more thrilled by the patriotic fervor of his adherent. 

But he had taken a step which he would not retrace 
if he could. He had deliberately turned his back on a 
tlirone, for which he did not care, to be the husband of 
a woman who was more to him than all else in life. 

Had he obeyed the impulse that came on him with a 
force that it cost a powerful effort to resist he would 
have told the old orator and his friends, then and there’ 


176 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


that he did not want to be the king of Hawaii ; and, fur- 
ther, that he had, as a man, ignored the pledge made for 
liim by his father when he was a child ; but he felt that 
if he were to do so the men who were ready to worship 
him as^ the possible savior of their country would, in 
their wild fury at the discovery, destroy him as a traitor. 
That he had the tact that is often more potent than valor 
was shown by his reply. He determined not to refer to 
his marriage, nor to the fact that he regarded himself as 
a prisoner, but to show that the action of Keona in get- 
ting the voice of the people as to their choice of a ruler 
showed that a new and better method of selecting sov- 
ereigns had come to Hawaii. 

But, adroit though this was, it did not satisfy Pedro or 
the natives. They wanted Kohala to at once claim the 
throne by proclamation, as the only way of getting it at 
all. 

“No,” said Kohala, his patience at length threatening 
to give way, “I can make no proclamation from this 
place. Here I am virtually a prisoner. I am not blind 
to this fact, though you treat me as a king. I will 
not say that you are not all entirely honest in your 
purpose ; but if I am fit to rule when king my opinions 
should have weight while I am a private citizen. I see 
you agree to that. Very well, when I am assured that 
a majority of the people in these islands want me then 
I shall act, but not before. That is my answer, and it 
is folly longer to take- up your time in discussion.” 

The men looked at each other in a disappointed way. 
True, Kohala had not absolutely rejected their advice, 
but he had not accepted it, as they thought he would. 
The more impulsive of the natives had been talking of 
a war under the lead of the young king, and so those 
who heard him were inclined to think that his caution 
was cowardice, and that contact with the whites had 
made him effeminate. 

The impression that he was still a prisoner was verified 
when Pedro and two of his countrymen escorted him 
back to the little sitting-room assigned him by Annetta 
that morning, and where he was told he must “please 
remain for the present.” 


KOHAL.A OF HAWAII. 


-I f' 

1 1 I 

The natives lived near by in the Nuiianu Valley, where 
their thatched huts were set amid plantations of bananas. 

At the head of this valley, and only two miles away, 
though Kohala had only the vaguest idea of his where- 
abouts. there was the appalling precii)ice of the Pali 
with the fair heights of Lanihuli smiling down on the 
scene of Kamehameha’s last battle for united Hawaii. 

When night come Kohala was permitted to take a 
walk, accompanied by Pedro, who, in his earnestness 
to earn the reward offered by Featlierstone, tried again 
to impress the young man with the necessity for issuing 
a proclamation at once. And on his part, Kohala, still 
loyal to the man he thouglit his friend, sought in vain 
to learn what had become of the captain. The only 
assurance he could get, and that was far from convinc- 
ing, was that the Englishman was safe and that he had 
gone away that morning with the natives to try and di- 
rect matters to his — Kohala’s — advantage. 

Annetta, evidently infatuated with her father’s de- 
tained guest, did everything in her power to make him 
coinfortable, and she showed an inclination to remain 
talking with him that might have flattered him had not 
her purpose to impress him favorably brought more 
vividly before him the sweet face of tlie wife from wliom 
he had been parted at the altar. 

Driven to desperation by the danger and uncertainty 
of liis situation Kohala made up his mind to make one 
effort for freedom that night. 

Apart from removing his boots he did not undress, 
but threw liimself on the bed, determined to get out 
tlirough the window after midnight. 

Despite his efforts to keep awake he dropped off to 
sleep. He was aroused by the tramping of heavy feet, 
and. looking up, he saw by the flash of a lantern tiiat 
Featlierstone, with a look of indescribable hate in his 
face, was bending over him. 

Kohala, who had been dreaming of escape, sprang 
from the bed, and the two men stood looking at each 
other, Featlierstone being the first to speak : 

“They let me go away to help you,’’ he stammered, 
“and I have just got back.’’ 


178 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Got back from where?” asked Kohala, and he pulled 
on his boots and glanced up at his visitor, whose face 
looked livid in the light of the lantern, which he still 
held as high as his head, though the expression of hate 
had vanished from his bloodshot eyes. 

“From Honolulu,” said Featherstone, evidently sur- 
prised at the energetic manner of his young friend. 

“And they let j^ou go there?” 

“They did.” 

“Then you told my friends of my situation?” 

“No. I had to pledge myself to these people that I would 
not see Colonel Ellis. But I did see Mrs. Holmes.” 

“And how is she?” asked Kohala, eagerly. 

“She seems to be well.” 

“And you told her I was here?” 

“I did not.” 

“You did not?” 

“No.” 

“May I ask the reason?” 

“Because she had so much to tell of herself that she 
had no time to make inquiries after you,” said Feather- 
stone, and he set the lantern down and faced Kohala. 

“The meeting does not seem to have sweetened your 
temper. Captain Featherstone,” said Kohala, with "dig- 
nity “But it strikes me as not a little strange that you, 
claiming to be my friend, have been given j our liberty 
and that you have not used it to get me out of this 
place.” 

“Yes, Kohala, I have been your friend, and your true 
friend ; but I have just learned that you are not worthy 
the confidence I have given you and the efforts I have 
made for your elevation. ’ ’ 

“I certainly do not understand you, captain.” 

“Then I shall be plainer.” 

“I wish you would.” 

“Without saying one word to me about it, you got 
married.” 

“I certainly did not think your consent to my mar- 
riage at all essential to make it binding, nor do I think 
so now. May I ask who gave you the information?” 

“The lady herself.” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


179 


“My wife tells only the truth.” 

“Ha ! are you sure she is your wife?” 

“lam certain.” 

“And that she has not another husband living?” 

“You dare not intimate as much to me,” said-Kohala, 
his eyes ablaze \yitli indignation. “You insult me, when 
you dare to reflect on the integrity" of the woman I have 
made my wife ! But if siie were what you intimate — 
and you know you lie in your throat vvhen you say it — 
then you must have known it when you introduced me 
and did all in your power to keep us together ! Feather- 
stone, I am neither blind nor a fool. Much that has 
puzzled me. seems clear as daylight now You need not 
frown. I do not fear you. Go!” and Kohala pointed 
imperiously to the door; and Featherstone, not daring 
to trust himself longer, for he was clutching at the 
stock of the pistol in his pocket, went out to consult 
with Pedro, who was awaiting him. 


\ 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

BLAKE UNDERSTANDS HUMAN NATURE. 

Not Richard himself, at Bosworth Field, wished for 
a horse more earnestly than did Blake, when, in the 
darkness, he heard Featherstone and his companion rid- 
ing away. 

He knew that it would be folly to try to follow them 
on foot, so he stood still till the pounding of the horses’ 
hoofs died out in the direction of the Nuuanu Valley, 
and from this he inferred that the young man be was 
in search of was concealed up in that direction. 

Feeling that he had accomplished something, Blake 
made his way back to the city, and, like a prudent man 
who understood that his success depended on keeping up 
his strength, he found his own quarters and went to bed. 

The next morning he called on Colonel Ellis and re- 
ported all that had happened the previous evening. On 
hearing that Featherstone was possibly responsible for 


180 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Kohala’s abduction the colonel, who knew from the 
guards that the man had been seen coining into the city 
early that morning, was for arresting him at once. 

“I think that would defeat our plans, if, indeed, it did 
not result in the death of the man we are so anxious to 
save,” said Blake. “If we seize Featherstone he will 
deny everything and appeal to the English Consul for 
protection. No, colonel, we must follow the fellow up 
and catch him red-handed. I think -I see through his 
game, and if I am right, it is a bold and a deep one ; but 
we can beat him at his own tricks. Just leave it to me.” 

At this point Colonel Loring came in, and when he 
heard Blake’s story and suggestions he said : 

“I am quite willing to trust Blake in this matter. I 
hope, however, that his confidence in himself will not 
lead him to attempt too much alone. ’ ’ 

“No, colonel,” said Blake, “if I find that help is needed 
I have your authority to get it, and depend on me to do 
so. I can tell you no more of my purpose, or, rather, 
of what I propose to do, for it may be modified by new 
conditions at any moment.” 

Blake was not a man of impulses, yet he confessed to 
his friend that some of his best work, when chief of 
police, had been done through unpremeditated acts. 
He left the Hawaiian Hotel, and so absorbed Avas he 
in what Avas uppermost in his mind that he gave no heed 
to the direction he was taking till he suddenly started, 
like one waking from a vivid dream, and found himself 
directly in front of the large cottage, a part of Avhich 
he knew to be occupied by Marguerite Holmes. 

He had often seen and admired the dainty little En- 
glishwoman on the streets ; but, as their lines of life lay 
wide apart, he had never spoken to her. Acting on the 
sudden impulse, he determined to do so noAv. “If no 
other good comes of it,” he reasoned, as he made his way 
to the door, “I shall, at least, be able to tell whether it 
is Featherstone or Kohala who is the favored man.” 

Clem, looking more grim and prim than ever, answered 
Blake’s ring, and in reply to his question if her mistress 
Avas in she asked, snappishly : 

“Well, Avhat if she is; aaJio’H I say Avants to see her?” 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


181 


“Lieutenant Blake of the Provisional Army. I have 
no card.” 

The title had a soothing effect on Clem, for she unbent 
her face, if not her form, and strode rather than walked 
away, leaving Blake outside the closed door. 

Presently she came back and said : 

“Yes, sir; Mrs. Holmes is in, and she’ll see you.” 

Blake was conducted into the sitting-room, and he was 
about to take a chair when Marguerite entered, looking 
very pretty and very pale, and with such an expression 
of helplessness in the long-lashed gray eyes as aroused 
the gallant fellow’s sympathies at once. 

“Mr. Blake, I believe; I am Mrs. — Mrs. Holmes,” said 
Marguerite, and she waved him back to the chair from 
which he had risen. 

Blake was not a vain man, and therefore was not given 
to pride himself on anything; but if he had been in- 
clined to boast he might, with truth, have laid claims 
to a pretty thorough knowledge of what the world calls 
“human nature.” He was favorably impressed by the 
slender little creature; her very helplessness appealing 
powerfully to his confidence, so he determined at once 
to be more direct than he ordinarily would have been. 

“Wlien you learn my mission, Mrs. Holmes,” he said, 
“I am sure you will be quite ready to pardon what may 
seem to you like an intrusion.” 

“I can assure you,” she said, with a bow and a sad 
little smile, “that I do not consider your presence an 
intrusion. ’ ’ 

“Thanks. Now may I ask if you know Captain 
Featherstone?” 

“Yes. I know him,” she replied. 

“He is a countryman of yours?” 

“Yes, I believe he is English.” 

“How long have you known him?” 

“I met him on the steamer, the Monowai, coming from 
San Francisco to Honolulu. Kohala was with him.” 
There was a perceptible tremor in Marguerite’s voice as 
she mentioned the dearly loved name. 

“Ah, yes, Kohala I” exclaimed Blake, for that was the 


182 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


subject he proposed leading up to, but she had saved Iiiui 
the trouble. 

“Do you know anything of him? Tell me! Is there 
any news of him?” 

There was that in the woman’s voice and manner that 
told Blake the true situation quite as accurately as if slie 
had taken him into her confidence and confessed lier 
love. 

“I am searching for Koliala now,” said Blake, de- 
termined to come to the point at once. “You want to 
have him found?” 

“Oh, God only knows how I do!” she cried, and she 
interlocked her fingers and compressed her lips as if to 
keep from breaking down. 

“You can help me,” he said. 

“I?” 

“Yes, you, madam, if you will.” 

“Then tell me how ! Command me, and if it will help 
Roll ala to have me walk the island on my hands and 
knees I am ready to do it. Why, sir, this thing has been 
killing me ever since I heard of it.” 

“Mrs. Holmes, you saw Featlierstone late last night?” 

“I did.” 

“And he spoke to you about Kohala?” 

“He did.” 

“What did he say?” 

“I — I cannot tell you.” 

‘ ‘Why not, if you are so interested in the missing man ?” 

“I had to promise that I would not.” 

“Featlierstone?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you do know where Kohala is?” 

“If I did I should be with him. It is by keeping the 
secret that I can see him. But I must not break my 
pledge.” 

“An unwise pledge is better broken than kept. But 
you say you are to see Koliala?” 

“That is promised me.” 

“And when is the promise to be kent?” 

“To-night.” 

“At what hour?” 


KOHaLA of HAWAII. 


183 


“It will be after midnight.” 

“And the man comes here?” 

“No ; I meet him.” 

“Where?” 

“In front of the Mormon Church.” 

“Thanks. Now one more question, Mrs. Holmes.” 

“You can ask me a thousand. Oh, this doubt has dis- 
tracted mel” she cried, with her hands pressed to her 
eyes. 

“You do not admire Featherstone, then?” 

“No; I loathe him.” 

“And yet you are willing to intrust yourself to his 
protection.” 

“What else can I do? I shall die if I do not see Ko- 
hala!” And in her excitement she rose and began to 
pace the room. 

“I think,” said Blake, speaking very slowly, as was 
Jiis habit when he came to a conclusion, “that I see 
through the situation very clearly. When you are with 
Featherstone to-night — and I believe it will help if you 
can keep the appointment — I shall try to arrange matters 
so that aid will not be far off if you need it. But don’t 
lose heart. When things are at their worst, they say, 
they begin to mend. I thank you for this interview, and 
if you wouldn’t mind making another pledge I’d like 
you to promise me that you won’t say anything to 
Featherstone about my coming here.” 

“I promise that from my heart; and I shall pray 
Heaven to prosper your brave efforts for me and mine,” 
she said, as she gave Blake her hand when he rose to go. 

As the door had been left open and this conversation 
was carried on in low tones Clem, who had passed and 
repassed in the hope of being able to overhear something 
that might be sold to advantage, was grievously disap- 
pointed. 

Marguerite, her heart greatly relieved by Blake’s visit, 
for there was that in the manner of the man that gave 
her confidence, went to her own room and lay down. 

She had had no sleep the night before. How could she 
sleep with such a load on her heart? Featherstone ’s 
promise had brought her no comfort. Indeed, the more she 


184 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


tliouglit over her meeting with him the more she regret- 
ted the impulse that led her to agree to his proposition. 

She had been dreading the expedition that niglit, not 
for the danger there might be in it to herself, for slie 
was driven to recklessness, but for the sake of Kohaia. 
The more she reflected the stronger became her convic- 
tion that Featherstone was leading her into a trap. But 
the coming of Blake had given strength to her body and 
hope to her heart, if not rest to her mind, so that, with- 
out any idea of doing so, she dozed off, and was sleeping 
when Clem called her to dinner six hours afterward. 

After dinner she tried to read, and failing in that, she 
took up her sewing — she always had some handy — and 
she kept at work till midniglit. 

She dressed for the street, putting on a warm wrap, for 
the damp nights of the Tropics are often chilly, and then, 
after extinguishing the boudoir light—the only one burn- 
ing in the cottage — she went noiselessly out to the street. 

Despite the comforting thought that Blake was near or 
watching her, her heart fluttered so as she hurried on in 
the shadows that several times she was forced to stop for 
breath. 

She reached tlie appointed place; but, to her relief, 
Featherstone was not there. She looked up and down 
the street, but there was not a living thing in sight. 

Alter a wait of ten minutes, that seemed like as many 
tedious hours. Marguerite was startled by a step behind 
her and the loud breathing of a man in a liurrv. 

She turned, and by the light of a gas lamp some dis- 
tance down the street she saw the flgure of some one 
near her, and she recognized the voice of the man she 
had been waiting for. 

“Glad to see you have come,” was the salutation. 
“Will you take my arm? No? Very well, my lady ; 
you may do better without. Now, keep close to me, or 
we may get parted in the darkness.” 

Althougli far from strong, Marguerite had the endur- 
ance and activity of far more robust women. His pace 
was quick and he breathed hard, like a man whose lips 
were set ; but she kept close to him, neither speaking a 
word as they hurried along the unlit allej^s. 


KOHALiA OF HAWAII. 


185 


At length they got beyond the city lights without being 
disturbed. About a mile up the Nuuanu Valley road 
Featherstone stopped and uttered a low whistle. It was 
answered by a whistle near by. 

He whispered : “There is a carriage at hand.” 

They reached it and got in ; but the carriage did not 
move. The hoarse voices of men were hearcl near by 
and the clicking of rifles, and one shouted out : 

“Hold up there till we examine your load.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

IN THE DARKEST HOUR. 

Marguerite heard the hoarse, peremptory challenge 
coming from the darkness without any feeling of alarm ; 
indeed, it gave her courage, for she regarded it as an as- 
surance that Blake was either near by, or else that the men 
with the rifles were acting under his orders. This re- 
markable man, with his quiet, earnest ways, his keen 
eyes and his power to read the thoughts of people — he had 
certainly read hers — had impressed her with confidence 
in his ability to do anything he undertook. 

Once outside the guards, who he knew watched the 
principal roads leading into the city, Featherstone felt 
that he would be safe, for he had run the gauntlet with 
ease when there was more need for vigilance than now. 
But when he found himself halted he was, for the pno- 
ment, so staggered that he could make no response. 

Men who depend for success on cunning need to have 
ready wits. At heart Featherstone w^as a coward, but 
he had the manner that is apt to pass for pluck with the 
inexperienced. 

Coughing, to give an outlet to his nervousness rather 
than to clear his throat, he called out, peremptorily : 

“Hello, there ! Wlio are you?” 

“Friends of Hawaii,” came the response. 

“Then you are friends of mine,” said Featherstone, 
with affected joy. 


KOHaLA of HAWAII. 


18 () 

“What is your name?” from the darkness. 

“Captain Paul Featherstone, late of the English 
Army. ’ ’ 

“And the lady who accompanies you':'” 

“Mrs. — Mrs. Marguerite Holmes, also English by birth. ” 
“And Hawaiian by adoi)tion,” joined in the little wo- 
man, her voice strikingly musical in contrast with the 
hoarse tones of the man. 

A.n approving laugh came from the darkness, and the 
sergeant of the guard asked : 

“Have you a pass, Captain Featherstone?” 

“I have not; I did not know one was needed. I am 
a subject of Her Majesty the Queen of England.” ' 

“If you were Her Majesty herself you could mot go on 
without a pass.” 

“May I ask why not?” 

“You may ask wdiatever you please.” 

“Then I demand to know why I am detained?” 

“I am obeying orders.” 

“From whom?” 

• “The Provisional Government. Now, sir, let me ask 
where you are going this early morning'with that lady?” 
“To the Pali.” 

“Ah, that is a dangerous jdace in the daytime; it is a 
thousand times more so at nig] it,” said the sergeant. 

“I was going to drive slowly on till daylight. Our 
purpose is to see the sun rise from the cliifs.” 

“Yes, that is a rare tine sight ; but there is a good road 
up there and with your team you can make the trip from 
here in half an hour. I shall consult with the captain in 
charge of this district, and if he thinks it well to have 
you go on I shall let you off ; but, for the lady’s sake, 
not till I can see daylight ‘on the crest of Lanihuli.” 

Featherstone choked down an oath, and the sergeant 
and his men held a whispered consultation, and some of 
them moved off ; but enough remained back to form a 
post about the carriage, around which they paced with 
the quiet persistency that distinguishes soldiers on guard. 
IMarguerite, though ordinarily impulsive and nervous, 
heard all this without a, tremor of alarm. She was so 
well satisfied with the situation that she snuggled down in 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


187 


her corner with her shawl wrapped about her, and was 
actually dropping off into a doze when Featherstone 
bent over and whispered : 

“Can you hear me?” 

“I can,” she responded. 

“Do you know what I think?” 

“How should I know?” 

“I think you have betrayed me !” he hissed. 

“How could I?” 

“By arranging with these men to be here.” 

“I did not know you were coming here. You did not 
tell 'me. I have followed out your instructions to the 
letter, and if you have blundered again you should be 
man enough to place the blame where it belongs,” said 
Marguerite, with a force that surprised him. 

Hitherto he had regarded her as a sweet, cunning, 
weak, lovable little creature whom he had entirely 
under his control, and who would do his bidding like 
a trained dog; so that it hurt his inordinate vanity to 
find that the woman he had been regarding as his tool 
had set his authority at defiance and treated his assumed 
mastery with contempt. 

He had been playing a bold game for large stakes, and 
he had shown a foresight and persistency that might 
have been regarded as able in a more commendable line. 
But now that he saw the chances for wealth vanishing it 
was, perhaps, natural that hate should spring from the 
ruins of his ambition and that he should look to revenge 
as the one thing that would appease his suffering. 

Silence came again, but it brought him no repose. The 
tramping of the soldiers outside maddened him. The 
quiet, regular breathing of that amazing little creature 
in the corner, who must actually have dropped off to 
sleep, fell upon his ears with all the torture of the 
filing of a saw. 

He turned and twisted and swore under his breath, all 
the while asking himself what he should do when day- 
light came and he was released. He could not well re- 
turn to the city, and to go on to Pedro’s would be to 
commit himself for the abduction of Kohala. He had 
had no thought of going to the Pali; but he told the 


183 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


guards that that was liis destination, and so there was 
nothing left him but to keep good his word. 

Marguerite was entirely riglit when she inferred that 
Blake was the man who held the carriage. She would 
have known his quick, keen voice had he spoken ; but 
as he did not, she concluded that he was not present ; 
yet he was. 

After seeing that the carriage was properly guarded 
Blake hurried back some distance to where a man was 
holding a saddled horse by the roadside, and, after ex- 
changing salutations, he mounted and rode back to 
Honolulu 

He called at headquarters and found Colonel Loring 
asleep on a sofa in his office. He woke him up and told 
him what he had done, and, as to what he proposed 
doing, he said : 

“I am going to drive that carriage to the Pali.” 

“But Featherstone will recognize you,” said the 
colonel. 

“No, he won’t.” 

“How can you help it?” 

“He has a native driver now; I know the man.” 

“Weil?” 

“I shall go to my quarters and make up like that 
native. Trust me for that — ” 

‘ ‘ But how can I help ? ” 

“Mount twenty or thirty men as soon as it is daylight 
and send them in all haste to Pedro’s.” 

“To Pedro’s!” exclaimed Loring. 

“Pedro Molino, a Portuguese. He lives on the aban- 
doned Markham place, to the left of the Nuuanu Valley. ” 

“1 remember. The fellow is a rascal.” 

“Yes, colonel, one of the grandest rascals in Hawaii, 
unless it may be Featherstone. If there was a belt given 
for pure cussedness and unadulterated villainy that fellow 
would be entitled to one as big in girth as the Equator.” 

“And the woman, Blake, what do you think of her?” 

“She’s a daisy, colonel — a perfect gem of a woman.” 

“What!” laughed Colonel Loring, “has she caught 
you, too?” 

“She didn't try to. By Jinks! like Captain Scott's 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


189 


coon, I came down and surrendered without firing a 
shot. Any man hereafter who dares to say a word 
against that little lady in my presence must be a better 
man than me or he’ll find himself badly licked.” 

“I shall keep that in mind, Blake; but on general 
principles I agree with you. Confound the cur, say I, 
who will slander a defenseless woman ! What, are you 
off? Well, good luck to you, Blake, and depend on me 
to do as you request.” 

Colonel Boring rose, gave Blake a hearty handshake 
and saw him to the door. 

When Blake got back to the carriage, which he did in 
the perfect disguise of a native, the first tints of the com- 
ing day were lighting up the stern, rocky head of Kona- 
huanui, to the east of the Pali cliffs. 

Without attracting Featherstone’s notice, Blake, after 
having made himself known to his companions, who, 
though expecting the change, were amazed at its com- 
pleteness, succeeded in removing the driver and in taking 
his place. 

“Coming to the carriage door, the sergeant called in: 

“Captain Featherstone, I have just received orders from 
the officer of the post to release you. Day is dawning, 
and if you hurry up you will be in j:>lenty of time to 
catch, from the Pali, the sun coming up out of the sea.” 

Featherstone was in no mood to be grateful for his re- 
lease; indeed, the soldier’s words seemed to have on 
him a maddening effect, for he put his head out of the 
door and shouted to the man on the box : 

“Drive on ! Do you hear me ! Drive on !” 

“Where; to Pedro’s?” came back the question in 
native accents. 

“No, curse you! To the Pali! Don’t you hear me?” 

“Oh, I hear,” was the quiet response. 

“Then go.” 

' “All right.” 

The whip cracked and the sleeping horses shook them- 
selves and started off, a little stiffly at first, but soon they 
limbered into a smart trot. 

Marguerite heard all this, but still pretended to be 
asleep. As the carriage swayed and turned in the ascent 


190 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


of the beautiful valley she caught frequent glimpses of 
the coming day on the crest of the steep volcanic hills 
to the right and left. 

Her appreciation of the beautiful was intense. The 
glory of that Tropic morning so inspired her during the 
transformation from inky blackness to golden blaze of 
the sun on the mountain-tops that she forgot her troubles 
and her position, 

Up through the sweet home-land of fair Koolau, up 
past the palm-thatched huts of the natives, up through 
the jungles of Ian tana covering the volcanic rocks the 
carriage rolled. 

The man on the box, cheered no doubt by the glory of 
the scene, broke into a native song ; but he had not iin- 
ished the first verse before Featherstone, at some risk to 
himself, put out his head and shouted : 

“Confound you ! stop that noise.” 

“I make no noise; I sing,” said the driver, and, to 
prove it, he went on with greater force, keeping time 
to the measure by cracking his long whip and stamping 
with his boots on the dashboard. 

Marguerite heard all this, and had it been light enough 
Featherstone might have seen a roguish gleam in the 
long-lashed eyes and a smile playing about the sweet 
little mouth. What was torture to him she saw the 
ludicrous side of and heartily enjoyed. 

They were within a few hundred yards of their des- 
tination, the Pali Cliff, over which King Kameliameha 
drove the last of his opponents into the sea, when 
Featherstone called to the driver to stop, which was 
promptly done. 

“We must get out here, madam, and v.*alk on.” sahl 
Featherstone. 

He sprang out, and extended his hands to lielp her : 
but she ignored his proffer of assistance and descended 
as lightly as if she were not stiff in every limb. 

“Drive down the hill for a mile or so,” said Feather- 
stone to the man, who had descended from the box. 

“Wait long, sa?” asked the man. 

“I don’t know. Do as you are told.” Then, in the 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


191 


same harsh voice, Featherstone turned to Marguerite 
and asked; “Can you make out without help?” 

“I shall try to,” she said, paid as she could now see the 
road leading up to the top of the Pali, she sprang ahead. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 

Although gentle and unsuspecting in his nature, and 
more ready to believe in the good in men than to suspect 
the wrong, Kohala, after that midnight meeting with 
Featherstone, saw into and through the fellow’s character 
more clearly than if the wretch had made a confession in 
the presence of death. 

He not only saw why Featherstone had clung to him 
abroad and followed him to Hawaii, but he inferred, 
with amazing accuracy, the part which the man had 
planned for Marguerite to act in the furtherance of his 
own schemes. 

When he first heard Colonel Ellis’s story — a story that 
reflected on Marguerite’s honesty and fealty — love, jeal- 
ous in proportion to its strength, maddened him, and he 
felt doubt of her in his heart, but he had too much pride 
to confess that doubt to his friend. 

But when he recalled that she had given to him the 
best evidence of her love, that in the few whispered 
words they had apart after the marriage ceremony she 
warned him against the very dangers tliat now en- 
vironed him, doubt gave way to a faith that filled him 
and thrilled him with confidence, and with a determina- 
tion as to his own course of action, from which he had 
not and would not vary till death wrote “finis” to the 
close of the story of his own life. 

He now saw why he had been brought here, and, 
while he was too loyal to the men of his owmrace to 
believe that they would scheme for his capture to aid 
the enterprise of Featherstone, he believed that Pedro 
and the captain liad played upon their patriotism and 
made them their tools to gain their own ends. 


192 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


Further, he realized — and the truth came to him like 
a blow from a giant— that if Featherstone did not clearly 
see the wa}' to success he would not hesitate to put that 
witness out of the way in order to save himself and to 
silence the one witness whose evidence would crush him. 

All this flashed through Kohala’s mind as he stood by 
the open window looking out into the impenetrable 
darkness wliere he knew that guards were watching 
to prevent his escape. 

A high wind whistled through the plumy tops of the 
]>alms and sv/ayed .the hissing undergrowth with a 
sound like the dashing of the sea against the sides of 
a moving ship. 

This noise was favorable to the venture on which he 
hastily decided. He took olf his boots, tied them together 
vdth a handkerchief and fastened them about his neck. 

The fact that he had no arms intensified his caution. 
The window opened on a jDiazza, and it was only a short 
step from there to the ground. During the day he had 
seen enough of the outside to give him some idea of 
direction and of the immediate obstacles he might have 
to encounter. 

As it was so dark that he could not see the fingers 
of his hand lield close to his face, Kohala did not at- 
tempt to creep, but, standing erect and moving as si- 
lently as a cat approaching its prey, he passed through 
the window and out to the junglelike garden. 

Glancing back, he saw the light in the room where 
Pedro and his friends \vere drinking and consulting, and 
this gave him a guide by which he could direct his course. 
Before moving again he put on his boots. 

Every few seconds he stopped and bent to listen, and 
till he grew familiar with the sound of the wind away up 
in the palms it seemed so much like the hoarse whisper- 
ing of angered men tliat he could hear and feel the i 
thumping of his owm heart. : 

As he went on, with many a backward glance, the light 
in the window grew dimmer and dimmer, till it finally 
faded out, and then he felt lost amid the tangle of lantana 
and the walls of prickly cactus that seemed to rise up be- 
fore him on every iiand. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


193 


There is nothing so uncertain as the direction from 
which a sound comes in the dark, unless one is expecting 
it from a certain quarter. Over the whispering and hiss- 
ing of the wind Kohala heard tlie barking of a number 
of curs. He Iviiew they were near the liouse, but what 
direction that was in he could not tell. 

AVhile he was lialted and listening he was startled at 
liearing, close by — so close, indeed, that it seemed he 
could smell the smoke-tainted breath of the speakers — 
two men in conversation. The first words that came 
to Kohala ’s ears were : 

“Those fellows in there” — no doubt meaning Pedro and 
his friend.s — “are playing for big stakes; they’ll make a 
fortune out of this, while we must be content with two 
dollars a day, ten cheroots and a pint of whisky.” 

“Well, don’t kick, Sanchez; that is more than we 
were making before we took the job. My only fear is 
that it won’t last long. Ah, if I had a good long head on 
me our positions would be changed, and Pedro would 
be guarding and I’d be planning to reap the harvest of 
gold. But I have an idea, friend Sanchez. ” 

“You have?” 

“Yes.” 

“Doesn’t it astonish you, Tom?” 

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?” 

. “Y/ell, an idea with you is so odd But let us hear it 
before it goes.” 

“It is this, Sanchez— now you've got some sense.” 

“Is that the idea?” 

“No, for you might have twice as much without being 
in danger of brain fever. But you know that every- 
thing’s upside down in Hawaii at this time?” 

“Everything but the Americans, Tom ; they’re up, and 
it strikes me they’re going to stay up.” 

“Maybe; but you’ll agree that they’d like to find the 
man we are guarding for two dollars a day, not to men- 
tion the cheroots and whisky.” 

“Yes, Tom, there is no doubt about that.” 

“And don’t you think Colonel Boring would pay big 
to find him?” 

“I am sure of it.” 


194 . 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Then, Sanchez, you can see my idea.” 

“Yes, but it’s a bit foggy.” 

“Then I’ll make it clearer.” 

“I wish you would.” 

“Let us carry off Kohala before daybreak.” 

“Whereto?” 

“Away from here to a point where one of us can guard 
him while the other one goes into Honolulu and sells his 
information and agrees to lead the soldiers to the man 
they want. There is a lot of money in that, and then it 
would save us from the trouble that is bound ''to come 
when Featherstone is hunted down, as he is sure to be. 
What do you think of the scheme, Sanchez?” 

“Think, Tom? Why, I think you’re what they call a 
genius, and I am in with you. Let us get closer to the 
house ; it will soon be daylight and there is no time to 
lose. ’ ’ 

The two men passed so close to Kohala that the arm of 
one actually brushed against him, and it was not till they 
had gone some distance, in what he now believed to be 
the direction from* which the barking came, that he 
ventured to move on again. 

“If they go back to examine my room,” reasoned Ko- 
hala, “they will soon discover my absence, and then, as 
they cannot carry out their plan, they will try to get 
credit for discovering my flight and will give the alarm. ’ ’ 

He pushed on with more speed, and had just reached 
an open space that he thought must be a road or a cleared 
field when he heard a series of appalling yells behind 
him, accompanied by the increased barking of the dogs 
and the discharge of firearms. 

Tliis startled him, but it did not lessen his presence of 
mind. 

He knew that the uproar was intended to intimidate 
him if he were within hearing. This supposition was soon 
verified. 

Above the clamor he heard Pedro’s voice calling out : 

“ We see you ! Come, there’s no use trying to fool us I 
We don’t want to harm you, but if you don’t come back 
we’ll kill you ! Do you hear?” 

If Pedro expected a reply to this, he was disappointed. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


195 


Again the shouting burst out; the flash of a lantern 
could be seen in the direction of the men, and the crash- 
ing noise of their tearing through the jungle drowned 
out the wind in the palms. 

Tlie lantern, without which Pedro could have made no 
lieadway, promised to be Kohala's salvation, for while it 
could not light up a path to liberty for himself, like the 
lighthouse beacon to the storm-tossed mariner, it indi- 
cated the place that w- as to be avoided. 

The fugitive could only hold himself back by a strong 
effort of will. The impuise, as is ever the case, was to fly 
with ail speed from the pursuing danger ; but to have 
done this blindly would have been to exhaust himself be- 
fore the time for the supreme effort came; and delib- 
erately to control himself by such reasoning under such 
circumstances indicated a self-command of no ordinary 
order. 

The open space reached by Kohala proved to be a road, 
and not a very good one at that ; but whither it led he 
did not ask himself so long as it led him away from the 
men who were determined to recapture him, dead or alive. 

As he ran on, reelijig now and then into the lantana 
jungle on either hand, he stumbled over something and 
fell. In rising, his hand came into contact with a piece 
of wood that felt like a wagon-spoke, and without any 
reason at the moment he clung to it. 

After this he had not proceeded more than a hundred 
yards when he heard the baying of a bloodhound — he had 
heard the deep, bell-like cry before and knew wliat it 
meant. 

The animal seemed to be at his heels, and as he stopped 
to listen he caught the pounding of hoofs, showing that 
at least one of his pursuers was mounted, and he saw the 
swaying of the lantern. 

Again Kohala’s presence of mind — and he needed it at 
this juncture — did him good service. Under such cir- 
cumstances the thoughts move with the rapidity of light- 
ning and the reasoning, having in it the element of in- 
stinctive self-preservation, is usually right. If he ran till 
the dog canie up his powers of resistance and defense 
would be lessened. He realized this and forced himself 


196 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


down to a quick walk, while momentarily the baying of 
the hound came nearer and nearer. 

Now the value of his find reconciled him to his fall, 
and he came to regard it as Providential. As the hound 
seemed to be right at his heels he halted and grasped his 
club with a feeling of intense satisfaction. 

He could not see, but the baying suddenly stopped, and 
he felt the dirt thrown on his feet as the creature came 
to a halt. 

Setting his teeth and striking with all his might, in the 
darkness, to be sure, yet with the almost certain feeling 
that he was going to hit something, Kohala brought 
down the club. 

He felt it crashing into a pliant body. He heard a 
gurgling groan, and he reasoned that for the present, at 
least, there was no danger in that particular dog. 

He had not long to wait, for the rider with the swing- 
ing lantern was coming on at a gallop and at this time 
was not more than fifty yards away. 

Now the fugitive put forth all his speed and shot ahead, 
all the quicker for the slope of the ground which fell 
away in the advance. 

He did not see Pedro’s horse suddenly stopping and 
nearly unseating his rider as he came upon the huge dog 
dying in the road ; but he did hear the crack of a rifle 
and the whizz of a bullet and the torrent of fierce impre- 
cations which the now maddened and alarmed horseman 
sent after him. 

Kohala must have run fully a mile before" he came to 
a halt. Then the sounds behind had died out and the 
wind had sunk to rest, or else there were no palms to be 
whispered to. 

As he stood trying to peer through the darkness h© 
saw before him, and seemingly high up in the heavens, 
an opal glow on the rugged mountain crests above the 
Pali. 

He waited for some minutes, the hope in his heart in- 
creasing as the light of another day came creeping down 
the mountains, driving the darkness and the mists be- 
fore it. 

Soon he began to recognize the hills; and not Tell, 


KOHAT.A OF HAWAII. 


197 


when he escaped from an Austrian dungeon and found 
himself a free man amid the surrounding peaks and 
crags of his native Alps, felt the thrill that came to the 
heart of the young Hawaiian and sent the blood cours- 
iiig joyously through his veins as he recognized the land- 
marks and mountain monuments above the historic cliffs 
of the Pali. 

l/ower and lower down the slopes came the light, re- 
vealing the outlines of the palms and bringing to view 
the nestlike huts of the natives. 

Koliala hurried on, but still kept an eager lookout in 
every direction. At length he reached the Pali road, not 
twenty minutes’ walk from the precipice. 

While seated on a rock, resting and thinking, he heard, 
not far away, a native love-song, accompanied by the 
tramping of horses, the rolling of wheels and the crack- 
ing of a whip. 

He recalled that it was not unusual for lovers of the 
sublime and beautiful — who were principally tourists — 
to come out to the Pali before day in order to see the 
great red disk of the sun lifting out of the eastern ocean 
and turning the turquoise waters to liquid flame. But 
who in troubled Honolulu at this time could give thought 
to the romantic ? 

Tlie panting horses came' laboring up, and when the 
dim outline of a covered carriage came to view a hun- 
dred yards below, Kohala drew back into the lantana 
jungle and waited. 

The carriage stopped before it got abreast of where he 
was and he heard voices ; one was unmistakably that of 
Featherston^! and the other was a woman’s, and though 
he could not recognize it, it thrilled him and set his hea,rt 
a-fluttering, for he could not see or think of a woman 
v/iihout having the idol in his heart leap up to his brain 
in the form of Marguerite. 

He heard tlie carriage turning below, then the fall of 
feet and the sound of voices came nearer. 

He parted the jungle and looked out; and his heart 
stopped beating for the moment as he saw his wife walk- 
ing up to the cliff— walking up, clearly of her own voli- 


198 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


tion, to the Pali, beside the man whom he knew to be 
an adventurer and a traitor. 

Forgetting for the time -where and wdiat he was, the 
fires of jealousy blazed up in the young man’s breast and 
lie lecalled what Colonel Ellis had told him in Hawaii. 

That Featherstone should betray him was shocking, 
but he had never considered it among the impossibilities ; 
but that the woman he had so worshiped should demon- 
strate her perfidy before his eyes was something so 
terrible that, as he realized it, he was stunned almost 
into insensibility. 

They passed on, and then the reaction set in. The hot 
blood flamed from the young man’s heart to his eyes till 
he looked like one of his own savage ancestors on the 
warpath. Choking down a cry of hate and rage he 
clutched his club, and, with the stealthy step of a tiger, 
followed his wife and Featherstone up to the Pali preci- 
pice. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

ON THE PALI CLIFFS. 

It was a morning such as is never seen out of Hawaii, 
and not often there. 

The valleys stretching away to Honolulu were veiled 
in a"silvery mist, above which the fronded palms showed 
their heads like ships becalmed at sea. 

A cloud in the upper sky looked to be changing from 
a -warm opal to an intense golden flame, and it needed no 
stretch of the imagination to make it the sconce of the 
soft, warm illumination falling like a holy halo on the 
emerald land. 

The mountains looked like masses of amethyst, tipped 
on their higher crests— which had already caught tlie 
sun— with giant points of amber and ruby that seemed to 
be self-luminous. 

The air was still asleep, and through it floated birds 
and butterflies, the flash of their wings suggesting the 
opening and closing of animated blossoms. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


19 ^ 


If she knew that she were walking to death — and she 
was far from feeling that such was not now the case — 
Marguerite, with her keen sensibilities and poetic soul, 
could not have remained indifferent to the indescribable 
beautj^ and undreamed-of sublimity of her surroundings. 

As she went on she could hear the fall of the breakers 
coming up, as it seemed to her, from the foundations of 
the volcanic hills like the measured beat — the rhythmic 
throbbing of the island’s heart. 

“If Kohala were only here, then death in such a place 
and at such a time could have no horrors.” This she 
thought, as she, with daintier, airier step, went ahead of 
lier panting, purple-faced companion. 

Marguerite had been to the Pali before and with this 
same man, but it did not look like the same place. A 
glorious landscape, like an expressive face, has its moods 
and phases and its varying lights that give it a changing 
and ever-increasing beauty. Such a face and such a 
scene never pall, never w*eary the beholder with the op- 
pression of soulless monotony. 

At length she reached the crest of the cliff and drew 
back wuth a suppressed cry of alarm, for there yawmed 
at her feet the awful precipice of the Pali, with the white 
breakers gleaming a thousand feet below'- like the flash of 
a cruel monster’s teeth. 

“Are you frightened?” asked Featherstone, with a 
mocking laugh, as he sat down on a red rock that looked 
as if it had been stained by the blood of the great kings 
slain. 

“No,” she managed to say, but she did not look at him. 
She stepped back w'ith her gloved hand jDressed to her 
eyes, as if to shut out the appalling abj'^ss at her feet. 

Strange that we can look up into the profound depths 
of space wutli no feeling of horror and that from the land 
w'e can look out on the destroying, all-devouring sea 
with no feeling of dread, while the nerves are unstrung 
by a glance from an upper window. 

With the precipice out of sight, Marguerite ventured to 
look out and beyond. The east w-as all aflame, and the 
crescent of the rising sun, blood-red and burning, was 
rising over tiie far-off rim of the heaving ocean. 


200 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


The circle of the barrier reef was visible, rolling like 
pearl mountains in whose liquid arms a thousand tangled 
rainbows had been caught and intermingled. 

So entranced w'as Marguerite with the transcendent 
glory of the scene spread out before her that she forgot 
everything but Kohala. His presence was the one thing 
needed to fill to overflow the chalice of her elevated and 
soulful rapture. 

From the splendor of this waking dream she was 
aroused by the voice of Featherstone breaking in like a 
torturing discord on the entrancing flow of an exquisite 
harmony, and saying : 

“You seem to enjoy it.” 

He rose from the rock, pushed his handkerchief into 
his pocket, as if he were provoked at it, and came and 
stood near her. 

Before replying Marguerite turned and stepped back, 
with an instinctive desire to be out of his reach, and it 
may be, for the purpose of watching his face, in which 
she saw nothing reassuring. 

“I have been enjoying it,” she said. 

“And I have spoiled the pleasure ; is that it?” 

He stooped and tried to look into her eyes ; but without 
showing her dread — a dread increased by the proximity 
of that awful cliff — she avoided his gaze, and responded : 

“You have brought me here. Captain Featherstone, 
now tell me your purpose.” 

Oh, I shall do that. But first, let me ask : Did you not 
think I was going to take you to Kohala?” 

I did ; but I now see the folly and weakness of my 
credulity, for you evidently had no such purpose in 
mind.” 

“Yet, madam, I assure you I had.” 

“Then why did you not carry it out?” 

“Do you not know?” 

“I do not.” 

“Then let me say I have been crediting you with more 
shrewdness than you seem to possess.” 

“I shall not ask why jou have come to that conclu- 
sion.” 

“If you did I should tell you that you should have seen 


KOHATiA OF HAWAII. 


^301 


that those dogs of guards— curse them ! I wish I could 
see every man of them tumbling over the Pali— inter- 
fered with my plans. I could not go to Koliala wdthout 
letting them know his whereabouts. Do you understand 
that?” he sneered. 

“I understand what you say.” 

“And I say what I mean.” 

“Tlxen I must infer that you and your associate con- 
spirators hold Kohala prisoner at some point not far from 
where we are?” 

“I have not said that; but I will say tliat the man you 
call your husband is in danger of death—” 

“Of death!” she cried. 

“Ay, of death; and it will come swift and inexorable 
before another sun rises if you do not interfere to save 
him. ” 

“If I do not - interfere to save him?” she repeated. 
“Why, man, I am ready to die to save Kohala not only 
from death, but from suffering ! For God’s sake, take 
me to him at once!” and she clasped her hiinds and 
reached them out appealingly to him. 

“Have a little patience — ” 

“But 3/0U torture me ! Is it manly to do this?” 

“ Aorture you ! Torture you! Look at me, woman!” 
H.? drew liimself up and smote his breast in a way that 
would have been mock heroic under any other circum- 
stances, but which seemed tragic there. “Do you give 
thouglit to the torture you have brought to me?” 

“If I have given you pain, pardon, for Heaven know’s 
I never meant it ; and it is the spirit of justice to measure 
the act by the motive that inspires it.” 

“Once your pleading would have been all-potent witli 
me, for I loved you, and, loving you, I trusted you and 
believed in you as I never believed in a human being be- 
fore. But you liave betrayed me and shattered all the 
plans I had made for your happiness.” He paused, bit 
his lip as if debating a second tliought, and added: 
“But if you choose to do right, choose what you led me 
to believe you would do, it is not too late.” 

“I ma}^ have seemed to lend myself to your schemes,” 
she said, a becoming flush rising to her usually pale 


202 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


cheeks and a brave light coming into the long-lashed 
gray eyes, “yet it was that I might the better understand 
you. I have never laid claims to a masculine intellect, 
yet I would have been an irresponsible and unreasoning 
idiot if I had closed my eyes to your purpose when you 
coaxed me to pretend love for Kohala after you had al- 
ready asked me to be j^our wife.” 

“And you agreed to be my wife !” he interrupted. 

“So I did. At that time I was poor and alone in the 
world, and although I knew that I did not and could not 
love you, yet I believed you to be a soldier and a gentle- 
man whom I could, at least, respect. But I was not long 
in learning your true character, nor long in discovering 
that I could return Kohala’s love. Then, for his sake, I 
acted my part ; but from first to last I defy you or any 
one to say that I have done aught that any true woman 
would not have done under the same circumstances.” 

“Yes, you thought by throwing me over and marry- 
ing this gilded savage that you might become the queen 
consort of the King of Hawaii. Oh, I understand you,” 
said Featherstone, with a mocking laugh. 

“If I had had any such ambition then I must have 
doubted all your statements and among them your pro- 
fessions of love — the latter I never believed in, for I saw 
you wanted to use me simply as a tool for the further- 
ance of your mercenary designs. You told me that if 
Kohala married a white woman the natives would not 
only refuse to make him their king, but that they might 
seek his life. He did not want to be king; but he did 
love me and I loved him, and the world is wide enough 
for our love to live in beyond the shores of Hawaii,” and 
she waved her hand to the east, from which came over 
the flashing waters the rising sea breeze. 

Featherstone surveyed the slender figure with a look 
of unutterable hate in his bloodshot eyes. His fingers 
closed and opened with a murderous expression, and an 
onlooker would have said that it was to keep from seiz- 
ing her at once and hurling her over the cliffs that lie 
turned and walked dov>m the slope for twenty yards, 
then came slowly back. 

“Yes,” he said, as he came and stood before her again. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


S03 


”yoii have played a strong hand and won the odd trick. 
But it will do you no good. Your husband is a prisoner, 
and only death can release him — and you are here with 
me alone and helpless. Do ^you understand that, my 
lady?” 

‘‘I understand; yet I cannot think you so wholly a 
coward,” she managed to say, “as to offer harm to a 
helpless woman.” 

“Coward! Fudge! I am not trying to establish in 
your eyes a reputation for gallantry.” 

He reached out his hand as if to seize her wrist, but 
she drew back with a startled cry. 

Featlierstone would have followed up this advance, but 
at that instant his quick ear caught the sound of a mov- 
ing stone among the mass of rocks to the right. 

He stopped and looked eagerly about him. The sun 
was now pouring a flood of gold into the Nuuanu Valley, 
and the silvery mists were rising and dissolving over the 
steeples of distant Honolulu. 

What was that? Up from the valley, clear, resonant 
and startling, there came the thrilling notes of a military 
bugle, sounding the advance. 

Featlierstone looked eagerly down in the direction of 
the sound and caught the flash of the sun on polislied 
arms. The soldiers were approaching, and his heart told 
him they were searching for him. 

Driv'en to desperation by the thought that the end was 
nearing and that all his plans had melted into thin air, 
like the mists, he shot out an oath, and, springing backr 
cauglit the slender figure in his arms, and shouted : 

“If we cannot live, we can at least die, together.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A STRUaGLE FOR LIFE. 

It is said by those who have been suddenly confronted 
by what seemed death in its most terrible form that there 
is no sense of dread. Dread implies time for thought, a 


204 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


period during which the cause can be carried by a mental 
process to its effect ; but in the face of immediate destruc- 
tion, even though resistance be made, there is no sense 
of horror, for all the reasoning faculties are paralyzed. 

Marguerite sent up a cry when she saw Featherstone 
leaping toward her with the look of a madman in his 
eyes; but entirely powerless to move, she stood as if 
rooted to the spot. 

She did not faint; but as he pressed her in his arms, 
still carr3dng her toward the Pali Cliff, he kissed her, 
and with her weak arms she fought him off as best she 
could, but he was entirely unconscious of the resistance 
she offered. 

Curiously enough she noticed a crimson butterfly that 
at that moment flitted past her face ; and she mentally 
appreciated its exquisite beauty, and recalled that, to 
the old Greeks, it tj^pified Psyche, or the immortal soul. 

She caught sight of the awful abyss, and the name in 
her heart burst up to her lips. 

“Kohala! Kohala!” 

“Ay, call upon Kohala; he is powerless to help yon 
now!” shouted Featherstone, and he stooped to kiss her 
again. 

Clear, high and ringing, like a heaven-sent answer to 
the cry of Marguerite, she heard the loved voice an- 
swering : 

“Kohala is here !” 

With the swift sweep of an eagle, which with fierce 
cry rushes down on the despoiler of its eyrie, Kohala of 
Hawaii, from the rock behind which he had been con- 
cealed, leaped straight at the throat of the traitor. 

With his left hand fastened in the wretch’s neck, in 
the right he swung the club that had already freed him 
from a nobler dog, and Featherstone staggered back, his 
hat severed by the blow and the blood flowing over his 
face. 

He released his hold of Marguerite as he fell back, and 
in her amazement and utter helplessness she would have 
dropped to the ground had not other and more manly 
arms caught and sustained her. 

“Marguerite! My life! my wife!” She heard the 


KOHALA OP HAWAII. 


205 


dear voice of Kohala and felt his kisses raining on her 
face, then the heavens and the earth were blended and 
she knew no more. 

“My Marguerite ! my wife is dead!” cried Kohala, in 
tones of mingled rage and anguish. 

r He carried her back from the cliff, and, laying her 
down with her back against a protecting rock, supported 
the dear head with one hand and by means of his hat in 
the other he tried to fan her. 

She had lost consciousness in that moment of supreme 
emotion and deadly peril; but, like a true defender of 
the loved, all his senses and powers were intensified. 

From the instant he had freed his wife from Feather- 
stone’s clutch Kohala, in his anxiety for her safety, gave 
the fellow no thought, till the clicking of a pistol ham- 
mer recalled him to a sense of the true situation. 

Springing to his feet and looking quickly about him, 
he saw Featherstone resting on one knee and covering 
him with a revolver. 

Then came a flash and a crash. Kohala instinctively 
had leaped to one side and the bullet hit the rock above 
Marguerite’s head, and the leaden splash struck one 
cheek and restored her to consciousness. 

Featherstone was an adept with the pistol, but his 
hand was not steady and the blood from his wound had 
dimmed his sight. 

He rose to his feet, with an oath at his failure, and 
was in the act of recocking the pistol when Kohala — not 
thinking of the club which had been cast aside— sprang 
at him, and, seizing the pistol, tried to wrench it from 
his grasp. 

Featherstone, though not so tall as Kohala, was far 
more powerfully built, and, in his time, had prided him- 
self on his athletic skill. In addition to this he had the 
Englishman’s contempt for the strength and endurance 
of an opponent, particularly an opponent of another race. 

He could not hold to the pistol and use all his great 
strength to advantage, so he threw the weapon to the 
front, and, as it went crashing against the jagged spikes 
of the Pali Cliff, the cartridges in the chamber were ex- 
ploded. 


206 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“Curse you! now I liave you!” roared Featlierstone. 

He threw his powerful arms about the younger man. 
and so sudden and unexpected was tJie act that, before 
Kohala could brace himself to resist, he was drawn at 
least ten feet toward the abyss, which w^as now only a 
fevr yards away. 

Hate is strong, but love is stronger. Hate is for tlse 
liour, but love is for eternity. 

Kohala caught sight of tlie frightened eyes and white 
face of his wife, and her helplessness filled him and 
nerved him v.dth the strength of a giant. 

The one man was ponderous wrouglit-iron. the other 
was w'ell-tempered and elastic steel. The one man was 
fighting for death, the other for life. 

Fea.therstone felt two arms clasping his waist, while 
the fingers, like the claws of a tiger, seemed to cut 
through his desii, and then he was lifted high above the 
head of the younger man and flung back with a force 
that must have crushed the life out of him on the rocks 
had he not, with the instinct of a trained wrestler, clung 
to the collar of his opponent, which, though it gave way, 
broke the force of his fall. 

Again Kohala’s splendid presence of mind came into 
play. He realized that he was standing between Feather- 
stone and the brink of the Pali, and that he might be sent 
over the cliff by the sudden onset of liis panting assailant. 
Quicker than it takes to record the act he had leaped be- 
yond his foe and repossessed himself of his club, no small 
advantage in such a struggle. 

Featlierstone saw all this as he sprang to his feet. He 
was about to make another rush at Kohala, wdio, an- 
ticipating it, stood on his guard, when another figure, 
that seemed to have dropped from the sky, so sudden 
was its appearance, leaped between the two. 

In this figure Featlierstone recognized the driver whom 
he supposed to be with the horses down the hill, if, in- 
deed, he had given him a tliought since parting from 
him. 

“What brings you here? Back to your horses!” he 
shouted, and he was amazed that the native did not fly 
at his bidding. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


207 


“^The horses are all right, captain.” 

This is what the native said, in the calm, impassive voice 
of a white man who was quite at home in such a scene 
and entirely able to take care of himself. 

“Get away, you dog, or I will throw you over the 
clilf!” roared Featherstone, taking a step toward the 
intruder. 

Instead of leaping back the driver drew a i)istol from 
his blouse, pointed it in a businesslike way at the cap- 
tain’s head and said, in the same cool, maddening way : 

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Featherstone; you 
might get badly left on the contract. Ah, I see you 
think I am an ordinary Honolulu Kanaka driver. Well, 
I am not ashamed of your mistake, for some of them are 
good fellows, right up and down good fellows that you 
are not worthy to hold a candle to. There, you can now 
get some idea as to who I am, though I can’t get the 
color off my face without water. ’ ’ 

While saying this the driver divested himself of his 
blouse, loose cotton trousers and wig and stood before 
Featherstone in the uniform of the Provisional Army. 

“Blake!” gasped the captain. 

“That is my name, at your service.” 

“T am sold on all sides !” 

“No, not sold; you have given yourself away; that’s 
cheeper,” and Blake laughed like a man enjoying the 
situation. Then, with a half-glance at Kohala, he 
added : 

“You attend to the lady ; I’ll take care of this fellow. ” 

Kohala sprang to Marguerite’s side, knelt down and 
took the dear head on his breast. 

“And what are you going to do with me?” asked 
Featherstone, with a defiant air and a backward step. 

“What do you think should be done with you, come, 
now?” 

“I know what you will not do.” 

“What is that?” 

“Make me a prisoner.” 

“Oh, yes, I will; and let me say, Featherstone, that 
I will treat you kinder than you have treated your pris- 
oners. and we’ll give you a fair trial and a fitting sentence. 


208 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


though there are men over in Honolulu at this time who 
would lynch you off-hand, but Colonel Loring will not 
permit that. Come, now, old fellow, save trouble by 
surrendering, for you have reached the end of your 
halter,” and Blake took a forward step. 

Featherstone took another backward step, and, with 
an oath, sliouted : 

‘'I will never surrender !” 

‘'^Nonsense!” 

“Keep back, I tell you !” 

“Hold, man I Hold!” cried Blake. “Can't you see 
the Pali is behind you? Come back!” and, for tlie first 
time, he became excited at the awful danger threatening 
the man in front. 

At this juncture the blast of a bugle again rang up the 
valley accompanied by the cheering of men and the 
ringing of flying hoofs. 

“I will not be taken, I tell you !” 

“My God ! Hold, man !” 

Blake sprang forward as if to seize Featherstone, but 
he was too late. 

Featherstone reeled on the edge of the chasm, gave a 
quick downward glance, tried to recover himself, then, 
with a cry that froze the listeners with horror, plunged 
over the precipice of the Pali. 

“Come, Kohala, the Pali has lost its glory and its 
beauty for to-day,” said Blake, and, shading his eyes, 
he tottered back from the chasm down which an un- 
fortunate life had vanished. 

“Devil tliough the man was,” said Kohala, with a 
shudder, “I would have saved him from that if I could.” 

“He brought it on himself. Sooner or later it had to 
come. After all, what matters it whether such lives go 
out on the gallows or over the Pali? Can I help you, 
madam?” 

“No, I thank you,” said Marguerite, who now stood 
trembling and clinging to her husband’s arm. 

“Then let us be moving.” 

As they went down toward tlie carriage Marguerite 
slowly recovered from the awful shock, though it was 
long before she was fully restored. It seemed to her as 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


209 


if she had been and still was in a dream, and it was to 
satisfy herself that such was not the case that she said 
to Blake. 

“Oh, sir, you have been so kind, and I have to thank 
you for so much.” 

“If I have been of use it was simply in the line of my 
duty; but I will say, madam, that I so admired your 
pluck and your genuine, no-mistake, fast-color love for 
your husband that I’d have looked on it as a pleasure to 
help you whether it was duty or not.” 

“Then I must thank you, too,” joined in Kohala. 

“Oh, that all goes for granted. But you must tell me 
your story as soon as we get a good chance. Feather- 
stone was not in this job alone, and in the interest of 
justice we must get at the fellows who helped him. By 
the way, madam, were you alarmed when the carriage 
was stopped last night?” 

“On the contrary, Mr. Blake,” said Marguerite, “that 
incident brought me a great sense of comfort.” 

“Indeed !” with a pleased laugh. “How was that?” 

“I knew that you had caused it.” 

“Good ; so I did.” 

“But I never dreamed that you were the driver.” 

“No? Well, I thought I should surprise you before we 
got through. Hello ! here’s my team. And now, Ko- 
hala, if you and your wife will get in it will afford me 
the greatest pleasure of my life to drive you both back 
to Honolulu.” 

As Blake was holding open the door and Marguerite 
and Kohala were getting in a band of armed horsemen 
came on the scene, and when they learned what had hap- 
pened they waved their hats, stood up in the stirrups and 
cheered to the echo. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A NEW DANGER. 

Before the carriage started off the officer in comrnand 
of the mounted men said to Blake : 

“You are right about that fellow Pedro.” 

“Did he confess?” asked Blake. 


210 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“No; but two of liis men did.” 

“What have you done with them?” 

“Sent.the whole lot, except the girl, Aiinetta, prisoners 
into Honolulu.” 

“Good; now let us be getting back.” 

The horsemen fell in behind the carriage, and the 
hungry team never went down the valley road at such 
a pace before. 

Residents in the Tropics are not early risers. The 
cool nights tempt to late hours, and so the people in 
Honoluiu were not yet astir when the carriage halted 
before Marguerite’s CDttage. 

As Kohala helped his wife out he said to Blake : 

“I feel that it is an imposition to trouble you further, 
but I have a request to ask.” 

“And I am just in the humor to grant it,” said Blrike. 

“When you have rested and had breakfast would you 
please call on Colonel Ellis, tell him all that has hap- 
pened and say that I shall be here whenever he is ready 
to see me?” 

“I shall be delighted. Congratulations on our success. 
Madam, good-morning.” 

Blake raised his hat, cracked the whij) and was gone. 

The couple were sitting in the boudoir about an hour 
after breakfast, Kohala eagerly awaiting the result of the 
mission intrusted to Blake, when they heard the roll of 
a rapidly driven carriage, which came to a sudden stoi) 
before tlie gate. 

Unmindful of her warning or anxious to conciliate the 
new authority, Clem put in her head and said : 

“If you please, mem and sir, there’s a lad}" and a gent 
as wishes to see you. ’ ’ 

“What are the names?” asked Kohala. 

“Colonel Ellis, sir, and his daughter.” 

Kissing Marguerite again — that was the one act he 
could never weary of — Kohala went to the door. 

He expected that his old guardian would be cold and 
provoked; great, then, was his joy when Alice kissed 
him as if he were her brother — indeed, she so regarded 
him — and the colonel took him in his arms and fairly 
hugged him. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


211 


“Well,” cried Colonel Ellis, when he could get his 
breath, “it strikes me that you have been getting up 
a revolution on your own account. But where is the 
lady? Your wife must be our friend. I tried— foolishly, 
I now see — to direct the current of your wooing ; I should 
have known that love is the one irresistible, uncontrol- 
lable force in Nature.” 

Alice looked at her father to see if she had his consent 
to speak, and on receiving a meaning nod, she addressed 
herself to the young husband and wife in this way : 

“The Queen, who thought she was bringing about your 
marriage to further her own ends, has not been success- 
ful. Through her friends the news of this marriage is 
now flying over all the islands, and, as we may well be- 
lieve, it will stir up a storm in Havaii. We have dis- 
cussed all this at home; and mother, who is still an 
invalid — particularly in the forenoon — has sent me here 
as her representative. Here are some of mother’s orders,” 
continued Alice, and she looked down at the palm of her 
shapely right hand as if the orders were written thereon 
and were plainly legible to herself. “We have a large 
house and plenty of servants. That house is the home 
of Kohala. There a welcome always awaits him. Ko 
hala has ‘gone and got married’ — I don’t know where I 
first heard that colloquialism, but it suits. He loves his 
wife, and we shall love her for his sake and for her 
own. This is her home. Tell her to close up at once — 
we’ll send reliable people to pack up her belongings, and 
so you fetch her with you to this house. These, my dear 
Marguerite, are mother’s orders; do you dare disobey 
them?” 

For reply. Marguerite came over and knelt beside Alice. 

; The two men, without waiting for further consent, 
walked out, and, in order not to attract attention on 
the now busy streets, they got into the carriage and 
were driven round to the Hawaiian Hotel. 

They found Phipps on guard at the door of the Council 
chamber. The only person in the Council-room at this 
early hour was Colonel Loring. So eager was the young 
soldier to do his full duty and that nothing should fail by 
his default that, when not engaged with his command 


212 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


outside, he was always- to be found at headquarters. In- 
deed, as we have seen, he slept there. 

“As there is no time to waste,” said Colonel Ellis, 
when they were seated, “for the steamer for San Fran- 
cisco sails to-morrow and the danger is hourly growing 
greater, I think it better that we should look the new 
danger in the face like men and see how it can be 
avoided or met.” 

“What danger do you refer to?” asked Kohala. 

“Keona, ever since the birth of his daughter, has lived 
but for one object, and that was that he should one day 
see her the wife of the King of Hawaii. His hopes in that 
direction are blasted, and you should know the conse- 
quences — should have reasoned them out before you 
gave way to the promptings of your heart, though, mark 
you, Kohala, I am not blaming you. I think I should 
have acted, under the circumstances, about as yon 
have,” said the colonel. 

“But what do you mean by the consequences?” asked 
Kohala. 

“You should know without any asking. The natives 
believe that you, by this marriage, have betrayed them ; 
and I tell you framkly that I fear for the consequences.” 

A knock at the door brought the conversation to a stop. 

Tlie door was opened by Phipps, and Blake entered, 
looking as fresh as if he had not been up and hard at 
work all night, 

“What news, Blake?” asked Colonel Loring. 

“The chief has just arrived, a score of armed men with 
him.” 

‘AVliere are they now?” 

“Still on board the steamer. But I should not be sur- 
prised if Keona appeared at any moment,” said Blake. 

“You must take my carriage and go with Kohala to 
tlie cottage, where you will find his wife and my daugh- 
ter. Take the whole party round to my house at once,” 
said Colonel Ellis. 

Blake saluted, and, now keenly alive to the situation, 
Koliala followed him from the room. 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


213 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ALL FOR LOVE AND A KINGDOM WELL LOST. 

^ Blake had come not a moment too soon with the news 
of the chief’s arrival, and Kohala had left the Council 
chamber not a moment too soon for his own safety. 

The two had not been gone four minutes when Phipps 
looked in and said : 

“There’s a man here who doesn’t belong to the Council, 
and divil a wan of him knows the pass.” 

“And his name?” said Colonel Loring. 

Before Phipps could put the question to the man out- 
side a high-keyed voice called out : 

“I am Keona of Hawaii !” 

“Admit the gentleman,” said Colonel Loring. 

The door was opened and the chief, dressed like a white 
man, but with a repeating rifle in his hand, strode into 
the' room. 

“Glad to see you ! When did you arrive?” was Colonel 
Ellis’s salutation, as, with hand extended, he advanced 
to the chief. 

“I have been betrayed !” 

“Betrayed?” echoed the colonel. 

“Yes, and you. Colonel Ellis, know it!” 

“I, Colonel Ellis, know nothing of the kind; and let 
me say, right here, that I do not permit myself to be 
talked to in this way,” said the colonel, hotly. 

“I am Keona of Hawaii.” 

“I do not care, sir, if you are the King of Hawaih I 
have ever been your friend, and I have done nothing to 
forfeit your regard or to merit this rudeness.” 

“Colonel Ellis, you are a man?” 

“I hope so.” 

“And you have a daughter?” 

“I have.” 

“What would you do to the man who betrayed her; 
to the man who was to have married her and then, like 
a dog, married another, and she a white woman?” 

“The word ‘betray’ is the wrong word to use.” 

“It may be, for your speech is not mine.” 


214 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


“But you refer to Koliala?“ 

“Ido.” 

“But would you want him to marry your daughter if 
lie did not lore her?” 

“Love her?” rei>eated Keona, not at all understanding 
the proper meaning of the word. “Is not my Leila, with 
her youth and beauty and ^vealth — mj'- Leila, who, since 
her infancy, has been betrothed to Kohala — more fit to 
be his wife than is this unknown white woman?” 

“She may be, but that does not enter into the ques- 
tion,” 

“Why not?” 

“Kohala is married.” 

“So I have heard, and may the curse of all the gods 
fall on him ! But he lives, and he is still in Hawaii.” 

“He lives,” said the colonel, sternly, “and he is .still 
in Honolulu ; and lie and his wife are guests in my house. 
You know that I Avas eager for Kohala to marry your 
daughter; but when he chose to marry another woman, 
and one who, in my opinion, is the equal of your daugh- 
ter or mine, then I propose to stand by him. And let me 
say right here to your face, Keona of Hawaii, that if you 
attempt to harm this young man or his wife I shall for- 
get our friendship and your wealth and your rank and 
I will see that you are treated like a common criminal. ” 

“I shall do as my heart prompts,” said Keona, with 
scorn; “and let me say to you that, though my race has 
melted away before yours, it has been through your aucos 
and not on the batlefield. I do not fear the white man, 
and Kohala, the renegade, is white down deep to his 
heart !” 

When the door had closed behind the chief Colonel 
Ellis turned to the young soldier and said : 

“That man is desperate, Loring, and must be watched. ” 

“I agree with you,” said Loring. 

“Can’t you detail a number of men to keep a lookout 
on him?” 

“I can, and I shall do it at once. Go to the house, and 
if you do not need Blake tell him to report here immedi- 
ately,” and Colonel Loring rang the bell for his orderly. 

Colonel Ellis, feeling anything but like a man who was 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 


215 


going, that day, to give a wedding dinner at his own 
house, hastened home. 

He found Kohala there with his wife, and they were 
as happy as if the last cloud had forever vanished from 
their lives. 

The colonel saw this, and realizing that no good could 
come from telling them of the presence and the threats 
of the chief he refrained. 

After dinner he took Kohala to the smoking-room and 
said : 

“Tell your wife that you must both have your trujiks 
ready for the steamer that sails to-morrow for San Fran- 
cisco.” 

“But why this haste?” asked Kohala. 

“You must ask no questions, but do as I say.” 

“Very well; but if I am to leave so soon I must go 
out and make arrangements with the bank about money. ” 

“You must not be seen on the streets ; I will attend to 
the money. I hold a balance of yours — more than you 
will need to spend for five years to come — and you can 
have more when you want it. My ad v^ice to you is to 
go to Europe or to Southern California with your wife. 
Get a home and keep house ; never think of hotel life. 
After a while peace, prosperity and a better feeling 
will come to Hawaii, and then it will be quite safe for 
you to return with your wife. There, my boy, that is 
all I have to say.” 

“And from my heart I thank you for what you have 
said and what you have done, ” said Kohala, and he seized 
his guardian’s strong, brown hand and kissed it. 

It was not till the Empress of the Seas had been a day 
out from Honolulu that any one but Colonel Ellis and 
his family, Blake and Colonel Loring knew that Kohala 
and his wife had sailed for America. 

Last March Alice Ellis became Mrs. Loring, and the 
valuable silver service that came on as a wedding pres- 
ent from America was sent by Kohala and his wife. 
The letter that accompanied it was written by Margue- 
rite, and, among other things, it said : 

“We are living in a perfect Eden to the east of Los 


216 


KOHALA OF HAWAII. 

Angeles and not far, from the Paradise of Pasadena. 
But with Kohaia ever near to assure me of his love, 
the dullest, stormiest laud on earth would be an Eden. 

“V,’'e never weary of Sjleakiifg oi‘ your great kindness 
to us, and in that we forget the slmdo'ws that fell on us 
in beautiful Hawaii. 

“Life to me, up to this loving, was far from haj)py, 
and I regarded it witli inditference. Now every moment 
is a joy, and I fervently thank God that I live and that 
1 may be worthy the continuance of this happiness, 
“That you and your noble husband maybe as happy 
as myself and Kohaia is the prayer of 

“Your adectionate friend, ^IVIarguerite.” 


THE END, 


Where Is He Going-? 


Gentle reader, he is hurrying home. 
A,nd it’s house-cleaning time, too 


-think of that i Fifteen years- ago, ff 
he wouldn’t have done it. Just at \\ 


this time, he’d be “taking to the 
woods.” But now, things are 
different. His house is cleaned 
with Pearline. That makes 
liouse-cleaning easy. Easy for 
those who do it — easy for those 
who have it done. No hard work, 
no wear and tear, no turmoil and 
confusion, no time wasted, no tired * 
women, no homeless men. Every- 
thino*’s done smoothly, quickly, quietly, 



anci 


easily. Try it and see. 


331 


JAMES PYLE, N. Y. 


A COMMON MAN 


BY 

LEWIS VITAL BOGY 

Author of ^*In Office” and “,4 Cynic^s Sacrifice” 


“ A Man's a Man for a' that ’* 


New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
1893 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by 
Peter Fbnklon Collier, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


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COMMON MAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

A PAIR OF OLD SHOES. 

The Fitzhugh family had just finished break- 
fast and were still seated at the table. The 
Judge had pushed’ one side of his chair from 
the foot of the table and, with his napkin across 
one knee (an after-breakfast habit of his own), 
sat in the comfortable enjoyment of two things 
that can be thoroughly enjoyed only by a man, 
coffee and a newspaper. The Judge invariably 
finished his second cup in that manner. He 
was a fine-looking man of forty-five, with a 
dark, drooping mustache, and thick, curly hair, 
lightly sprinkled with gray. He had been a 
county judge, always dressed in black, and 
generally wore a high silk hat. 

Mrs. Fitzhugh, who graced the head of the 

( 5 ) 


6 


A COMMON MAN. 


table, and whose fluffy light brown hair rested^ 
on the long, tapering fingers of her hand, was 
discussing the advisability of a ten-mile drive 
to pay” a long-standing country visit, with her 
son Guy, a handsome boy who had just returned 
from college, to spend his vacation, and who 
bore becomingly the delightful importance of 
twenty years and his first mustache. Sitting 
next to Guy, apparently deeply interested in 
the momentous subject under discussion, was 
Genevieve, as fair a picture of grace and 
beauty as ever a child of six years old pre- 
sented. She had her mother’s soft, fluffy hair, 
with more tint of gold on her young head, dark 
brown eyes with long, curling lashes, and pretty, 
sensitive lips that parted to display her white, 
even teeth. The dainty little head was so 
evenly poised upon the slender neck; the lithe 
figure, the tapering hands, the arched instep of 
the tiny foot were so deftly fashioned by the 
generous hand of nature that an artist striving 
for the portrayal of perfection of grace and 
beauty on his canvas would have rested con- 
tent with such a model. 

Opposite the brother and sister, her head 


A COMMON MAN. 


7 


lightly bowed over idly folded hands, and 
her mind as apparently unoccupied, sat Aunt 
Tildah — Miss Fitzhugh. Eare, indeed, was it 
in those antebellum days for a Southern girl of 
beauty and family to have passed the mile -stone 
of thirty in maidenhood. No other female Fitz- 
hugh in all time had borne that aristocratic 
name so long. And Aunt Tildah was thirty. 
You might have taken her for fifty as well; 
but all the county knew that Tildah Fitzhugh 
was a lissome lassie entering her teens when her 
brother Noel had married, twenty years before 
this story opens. But were the years thirty or 
fifty, they had laid a heavy hand on the beauty 
of Tildah Fitzhugh ; they had drawn deep lines 
about the sunken eyes and the close-set lips; 
they had pointed the chin and hollowed the pale 
cheeks, and left the round form wasted. 

Guy and his mother chatted on about the 
drive till he won her consent, as he generally 
did, and they mutually agreed to make an early 
start. Genevieve, childishly enthusiastic over 
an outing with her eiders, was already pressing 
the claims of her puppy, Gip, for a seat in the 
carriage. ^The Judge had gradually finished his 


8 


A COMMON MAN. 


coffee and had given his assent to the drive, but 
Aunt Tildah never changed her position and 
never said a word. When at last the family 
rose and walked out onto the broad veranda that 
fronted the house, she followed listlessly, and 
seated herself a little apart from the others. 

“Are you going with us, Tildah?” asked Mrs. 
Fitzhugh, as Uncle Zekiel appeared to receive 
orders for the vehicle. 

“Are you going?” questioned Miss Fitzhugh, 
turning her restless eyes on her brother. 

“No, I will have to remain in town to-day,” 
he replied, pleasantly. 

“Then I will go with you, Martha,” said Miss 
Fitzhugh, and relapsed into her listless state. 

“Very well. Zekiel, order the carriage,” said 
the lady of the house. 

The gray, woolly head of the old house serv- 
ant had just disappeared around the corner of 
the veranda, when the front gate clicked and 
drew the attention of the family in that direc- 
tion. 

“Whom have we here?” asked the judge, for 
only visitors in Florissant used the front gate, 
“darkies” and tradesmen using one* that had 


A COMMON MAN. 


9 


been erected at the side of the lawn. “Come 
here, Don ! Down, sir !’■ he commanded, as the 
dog bounded toward the intruder. 

Ragged, dirty, foot- sore, he trudged along 
over the smooth gravel walk that divided the 
great, broad lawn in front of the Fitzhugh 
homestead. Though he looked a very pariah 
of his kind, and the stick which he bore in 
his right hand had an ugly knob at its end, 
he was not a formidable-looking object. Ray, 
I doubt if among all the fair of Florissant 
there was one so timid as to have refused him 
a ‘Tift” in her vehicle, if she had passed him 
on a country road. Add ten inches to his 
height and ten years to his age, and not one 
of the fair young ladies referred to would 
have passed him without giving a looser rein 
to her horse and an anxious glance toward 
the town. 

Whatever be their effect on man, even 
weariness and hunger cannot make a child 
formidable, and, after all, the tramp was only 
a child. 

He had scarcely reached his fifteenth year, 
this little wanderer, but the self-reliance that 


10 


A COMMON MAN. 


comes to the mind when forced to depend on 
self for all was stamped upon his features, 
drawn though they were with pain, fatigue 
and hunger ; the thick, tawny hair, with a, 
faint tinge of red in its tangled masses, 
almost hid the boy’s broad brow ; the promi- 
nence of the cheek-bones was accentuated by 
the hollowness of his cheeks ; the nose and 
mouth were large and the chin square-cut, 
the teeth strong and regular. The face was 
not a handsome one — it was probably too old 
for the few years of its owner, yet there was 
no cunning in the expression, and the dark 
gray eyes, the one handsome feature, were 
attractive by their candor and earnestness. 
His figure, though thin, was well knit and 
muscular. His apparel was undeniably shabby, 
from the crown of the torn straw hat to the 
very edges of the patched and frayed trousers, 
held up by a piece of cord passed over one 
shoulder. The coarse, checked shirt, soiled 
and torn, was held together over his chest by 
a sharp black thorn, that served as a rude sub- 
stitute for a pin. In his left hand he carried 
a largo tin pail filled with blackberries. 


A COMMON MAN. 


11 


“Does yer want any berries?” asked the 
boy as he reached the foot of the steps. 

“ISTo,” said the Judge, shortly, for the side 
gate was one of his hobbies, and the boy had 
not even touched his hat when he approached. 
“When you come again, just use the side gate 
and go around to the kitchen.” The boy’s 
face fell, and the restful look that had come 
into it when he first placed his foot on the low- 
est step disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

“How much are your berries?” asked Miss 
Fitzhugh as he turned to go. 

“Ten cents,” replied the boy. 

“Very well. I’ll take them,” she said, giv- 
ing her brother a glance similar to one she 
had vouchsafed before accepting the invita- 
tion for the morning drive. “Just carry them 
around to the kitchen,” indicating, with a 
light wave of her thin hand, the direction 
recently taken by Uncle Zekiel. 

“That boy must be a stranger in Floris- 
sant,” mused the Judge, not sorry, as he 
noticed the boy’s limp, that his orders had 
been countermanded, but still mindful of the 
trespass on his smooth gravel walk. 


12 


A COMMON MAN. 


Younger and softer eyes noticed the limp 
as well, and light footsteps followed the boy 
to the kitchen. She walked fearlessly up to 
him, as he stood waiting for Aunt Dinah to 
empty the pail, and with quick pity in her 
eyes asked with childish abruptness ; 

“Have you had any breakfast?” 

“No,” answered the boy. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

“Yes,” he answered. And while he stood 
looking at his fair little questioner she turned 
and sped from him, just as Aunt Dinah 
returned the empty pail. 

“Oh, m.amm8., the poor boy hasn’t had any 
breakfast, and he says he is hungry,” said 
Genevieve, running to her mother’s side. 
“ Please let me get him some breakfast, 
mamma.” Pie heard the coaxing appeal and 
the parent’s assent as he came limping back, 
and the tanned cheek flushed. 

Aunt Tildah had gone to her room for the 
money to pay for the berries, and Judge Fitz- 
hugh told the boy to sit on the steps and 
wait. But as Aunt Tildah returned, a lithe 
little flgure brushed past her, and Genevieve, 


A COMMON MAN. 


13 


with face aglow and steady hands bearing a 
plate piled high with good things from Aunt 
Dinah’s pantry, descended the steps to the 
boy’s side. So intent on her purpose was 
Genevieve that she did not even glance toward 
the occupants of the veranda as she passed 
them. 

“Well! well!” exclaimed Judge Fitzhugh. 

“Did you ever see such a child!” said his 
wife, who, in assenting to the recent appeal, 
had intended to turn the boy over to Aunt 
Dinah’s hospitality in the latter’s domain. 

“Trixie is a little brick,” laughed Guy, 
approvingly, “Trixie” being the pet name he 
had given his sister. 

But they l^were not prepared for the actions 
of the boy. He rose as the child approached 
him. His temples throbbed, and a lump came 
in his throat. He turned from her abruptly, 
toward Miss Fitzhugh, who was standing just 
above them. “I’m waitin’ here fur the ten 
cents, mum,” he said. She handed it to him, 
and he turned to go, resolutely. As he did 
•so, his eyes rested full on those of the child at 
b*". side. Her sensitive lips were trembling. 


14 


A COMMON MANo 


and the quick tears of disappointment were 
ready to flow. “Aren’t you hungry? Don’t 
you want any breakfast?” she asked, perplex- 
edly. He hesitated; he was very hungry, but 
more powerful than hunger was the mute 
appeal of that quivering lip, of those moist 
eyes. A fierce conflict was raging under the 
ragged checked shirt. He could not have 
defined or understood the emotions of grati- 
tude, deep humiliation and fierce pride that 
sent the blood surging to his brow. He could 
have died then and there for that fair-faced 
child ; and the savage in his nature could have 
dashed the plate that she held to the ground. 

“Please eat something. Please do,” she 
urged, coaxingly. Over his mingled emotions 
flashed the perception of her disappointment. 
The struggle was ended, and they sat down 
side by side, with the plate between them. 

If Genevieve had harbored a momentary 
doubt of the boy’s hunger, the manner in which 
he u,ttacked the hastily prepared collation 
utterly dispelled it. He utterly ignored the 
knife and fork that she had laid on the plate,, 
but ate with his fingers like the famished 


A COMMON MAN. 


16 


young savage that he was. For the time 
being, the animal in his nature rose para- 
mount, and all his faculties were engaged in 
satisfying his hunger. His "hostess, with her 
chin resting in the soft pink hollow of one little 
hand, sat in silent and happy contemplation 
of the boy^s enjoyment of her feast. She was 
too young to have tasted often that rare cup 
of happiness that so seldom loses its nectar 
for youth or age — the sweet, unselfish happi- 
ness of doing good. 

At last the boy’s hunger was appeased, and 
his benefactress, whose cultured thoughtful- 
ness had restrained any inclination to question 
him while he was eating, asked him his name, 
with all a child’s interest in a child. 

“John Grey stone,” he replied. 

“Where do you live?” 

“Howhars,” he answered; “leastways, not 
now. I tromped here frum Egypt.” 

“From Egypt?” wonderingly queried his 
listener, who had a vague idea of the locality 
of that far country on her father’s atlas. 
“ Where is Egypt?” 

“It’s north of here sum’at,” said the boy. 


16 


A COMMON MAN. 


“Folks about these parts calls it Illinois, but 
them as lives thar calls it Egypt.” 

“Is it very far from here?” 

“Powerful fur. ^ I ’low sum’^at better’ll two 
hundred miles,” he answered. 

“Did you walk all the way?” she persisted, 
deeply interested, and with a child’s passion 
for exhausting an interesting subject. 

“Yes, leastways ’ceptin’ when I got a lift.” 

“What kind of a lift?” asked Genevieve, 
timorously betraying her ignorance. 

“Why, lifts on waggins,” said the boy. 

^‘Oh!” responded Genevieve. And the con- 
versation ceased abruptly. The young savage 
wanted to go. He shifted about uneasily, but 
even the independence of barbarian boyhood 
could not dissipate the awkwardness of the 
contemplated leave-taking. He had a wild 
longing to be out on the road again. 

He hated to be questioned. He could not 
have told why, but he felt instinctively the 
tacitly appropriated superiority of a questioner, 
and even the sympathy in the little maiden’s 
soft eyes and in every tone of her silvery voice 
failed to dispel that hatred. Why must he be 


A COMMON MAN. 


17 


questioned? Why must he tell his name and 
expose the dreary hardships" of his poverty to 
this tender- voiced child decked out in daintiest 
lace and muslin? Why! Had she not given 
him food? Oh, the bitter humiliation of that 
charity". He half rose to go, but Genevieve, 
all unconscious of the ill-defined emotions in 
his breast, had noticed the pain with which he 
pressed his lame foot to the ground in the first 
movement of rising, and her quick sympathies 
were immediately enlisted. ‘‘ Have you hurt 
your foot?” she asked. 

“Yes, a mule tromped it.” 

“Don’t you want me to get you some nice 
salve for it?” 

“ITo; I got axle-grease on it. It’s better ’n 
it was.” And he rose abruptly. 

“Do you use that cane because your foot [is 
lame?” she asked, touching the rough, knobbed 
stick with her dainty fingers. 

“Sum’at for that and sum’at for dogs,” he 
answered. 

“Why don’t ybu wear shoes?” asked the 
child of six of the ragged outcast. 

“’Cause I ain’t got none,” he said, desper- 


IS 


A COMMON MAN. 


ately, and turned to go. But the fates were 
against him — the* carriage drove up on the 
instant and momentarily barred his progress. 
The ladies, who had sent for their bonnets, 
were already entering the carriage, when Gene- 
vieve said: “Wait a minute, mamma; I won’t 
be more than a minute,” and flitted swiftly 
into the house. 

“ Hurry up, Trixie,” called Guy after her 
as she disappeared. The young gentleman’s 
patience was not tried, for she reappeared as 
quickly as she had gone, her young cheeks 
flushed, her young eyes sparkling, and holding 
in her hands a pair of shoes. She rushed 
straight up to the outcast. “They’re Brother 
Guj-’s. He doesn’t want them any more. 
Please take them,” she said. And the next 
instant she had bounded into tjie seat at Guy’s 
side, and John Grey stone stood there alone 
with the shoes in his hand — stood there dazed, 
until the carriage was almost out of sight, and 
he could just discern, through intervening 
leaves, the far-off waving of a child’s hand. 

He looked furtively around, but saw no one, 
for Judge Fitzhugh had retired into the house. 


A COMMON MAN. 


19 


He laid the shoes down carefully*" and took 
several steps toward the road; then stopped, 
irresolutely. Perhaps some gentle thought of 
the sorrow of the child if he should thus ignore 
her gift came to him; for, after another furtive 
glance at the house, he retraced his steps, 
folded the shoes under his arm and limped 
slowly away. What did it matter, after all? 
He never expected to see her again — he did not 
want to. JTever before in his life had he been 
brought so near to that class so far above him. 
In all the rude settlement where he had passed 
his orphaned days there were no persons of 
gentle blood, and the brief intercourse with 
Genevieve had been as a revelation to him. 
Not to be understood as yet; only to be felt. 
Her beauty, her generosity, her artless sym- 
pathy, her utter ignorance of the merest, details 
that had entered the woof of his hard life and 
the lives of those he had known were beyond 
his rude powers of reasoning; but the impres- 
sion that they made was none the less deep 
because of its novelty. They were so far above 
him, these ^ew beings, that he felt oppressed 
by the vast difference between that slender 


20 


A COMMON MAN. 


child and ' himself . Yet their pride could not 
have been greater than his own. He loathed 
himself for having accepted their charity; and 
yet he had accepted, unforced, the last humili- 
ating gift. What a concession to the potent 
spell of those soft brown eyes. He thought of 
them again and again as he limped along by 
the hedges, and for all his pride he held the 
shoes more closely with the thought. 

Slowly along the dusty June road he limped, 
turning at intervals to view the town of Floris- 
sant, gradually losing distinctness of outline 
in the distance, until a rising knoll hid it from 
his sight. Then leaving the road, where a 
low murmuring brook lured his footsteps, he 
was soon deep in the grateful shade of a broad 
stretch of woodland. 

At last he stopped and looked about him. 
It was a lovely spot. Giant oaks and ^wide- 
spreading elms interlaced their leafy arms above 
him, and wild flowers of varied hue decked the 
sward on every side. The soft rustle of the 
leaves, the monotonous twittering of the birds, 
the droning of insects, the ceaseless murmur 
of the brook harmonized with the beauty of the 


A COMMON MAN. 


21 


dell — one of those rare solitudes where Nature's 
lavish hand blends her softest tints, her sweet- 
est sounds, to woo the eye and soothe the ear 
and solace the heart of man. 

At the base of a gigantic oak tree the wan- 
derer noticed a depression in the ground and 
laid the shoes in it carefully. Then, breaking 
several leafy twigs from the low-hanging boughs 
above him, he buried the shoes under their 
light burden and hid them from his sight 
forever. 

He gazed long and wistfully at the spot, and 
then, with a lighter heart and a firmer tread, 
he turned toward the brook, whose winding 
course he had followed, and casting himself 
down at its margin, where the sloping banks 
were shaded by a weeping willow tree, he 
threw his tattered hat on the ground, and bend- 
ing over drank deeply of the cooling stream; 
then laved his bruised foot in it with all a 
boy’s love for running water. Kef reshed and 
soothed, he laid his head upon his arm and 
gave himself up to the indulgence of the softer 
mood that had followed the subsidence of the 
fierce emotions of the morning. 


22 


A COMMON MAN. 


The rustling of the leaves grew fainter in 
the growing noon; the birds, twittering less 
shrilly, hopped lazily from twig to twig ; the 
very monotony of the brook’s murmur deep- 
ened; a great black crow, circling slowly above 
the dell, settled on the highest branch of the 
giant oak, and, with one eye cocked curiously 
at the unfamiliar mound of twigs at its base, 
perched like a fantastic sentinel over the treas- 
ure that they concealed ; a poison oak vine 
threw its shade across the sleeping boy’s face, 
and, shielding, harmed him not ; a water 
moccasin, with eyes like glittering beads and 
slender fangs that held death in their quiver- 
ing points, came upon his bare foot in its track, 
turned and glided noiselessly into the running 
brook. And with tangled hair on the ragged 
sleeve, and peace in the heart under the wild 
black-thorn, with the glory of youth on the 
unconscious brow, the boy slept on, and, sleep- 
ing, smiled. 


A COMMON MAN. 


23 


CHAPTER IL 

A HERO IN RAGS. 

It was the morning following that of which 
the events have been recorded in; the last chap- 
ter, and just such another morning at the Fitz- 
hugh homestead. The Judge was enjoying the 
combined luxury of the newspaper and his 
second cup of coftee, and Miss Fitzhugh, in 
the same listless attitude, was, to all intents 
and purposes^ a thousand miles away from the 
family group. Genevieve was at her mother’s 
side, anxious and expectant. 

“ Please let me go with brother Guy^ mamma. 
He wants me to go with him — don’t you, brother 
Guy?” pleadingly. 

“Yes, let her go, mother. The ride will do 
her good, and I’m coming back early.” 

“Are you sure she won’t be in the way?” 
asked the mother of her handsome boy. “ You 
mustn’t feel obliged to take her if you don’t 
want to, dear.” 


24 


A COMMON MAN. 


“ But I do want to take her — don’t I, Trixie?” 
said Master Guy, stroking the soft hair of the 
child with a caressing hand. 

“ Yes, he does want to take me. He says he 
does, mamma. Mayn’t I go?” 

“Well, yes,” assented the mother. And the 
child, after giving her brother an enthusiastic 
hug, flitted away to .tell Uncle Ezekiel to have 
her pony saddled. 

A half-hour later she was cantering lightly 
along the road, with Guy, mounted on a hunter, 
at her side. The young man was very fond of 
his little sister, and she fairly worshiped him in 
return. One of the stories that he never tired 
of telling was of how he once discovered the 
little lady, then a mite of five, awkwardly, but 
patiently, attempting to sew a rent in one of 
“Brother Guy’s” coats. Crude, indeed, the 
result of that first sewing lesson, where love 
was the only teacher of the baby fingers, but 
the little maid was well satisfied with her work, 
and Guy — ^well, he had the coat still, and he 
never tired of telling the story. 

So they cantered along on their way to Major 
Kenwood’s plantation, where Guy intended to 


A COMMON MAN. 


25 


spend the morning, checking their pace at inter- 
vals for Guy to observe more closely a tobacco 
patch here and there that showed superior culti- 
vation, a neighbor’s thoroughbred colts at past- 
ure, or another’s recently imported group of 
Jersey cattle. 

Did you know that Miss Susie Leonard is 
staying with Mrs. Kenwood?” Genevieve asked. 

“No,” answered Guy, interested at once, for 
Miss Leonard was a very pretty girl from Louis- 
ville, and Guy was at a susceptible age. 

“Well, she is. Aunt Mamie told mamma so 
last evening.” 

0 

Quoth Guy, after ambling on in silence for 
some moments: “We will have to make a very 
short visit if we intend getting back in time for 
dinner, Trixie.” 

“We won’t be able to stay long,” she as- 
sented, dubiously. “ I wish we could stay 
there to dinner.” 

“So do I,” said Guy, a flattering likeness of 
Miss Leonard’s dimpled face passing before his 
mental vision. “ It would be pleasanter riding 
back this afternoon. If I wasn’t afraid mother 
might be worried, I’d stay.” 


26 


A COMMON MAN. 


‘‘I have it!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “ Arthur 
Boyce just passed us, and I’ll ride back and ask 
him to stop and tell mother. He can’t be more 
than a quarter from here now. Just wait right 
here and I’ll be back in two minutes.” And, 
tapping his hunter with the whip*, the young 
man. was off like a flash and at a speed that 
would have sadly distanced the best efforts of 
Genevieve’s plump pony. 

Glancing about her, the child saw a bed of 
sweet violets in a hollow strip of woodland just 
beyond the road. Leaping lightly from her 
saddle, she tethered the docile pony to an 
adjacent tree and ran to gather a bunch of 
flowers before Guy’s return. She had just 
stretched her hand forward to pluck them, 
when she heard a low growl, and the next in- 
stant her eyes were fixed by a sight that rooted 
her to the spot with terror. A few yards dis- 
tant, growling ominously, with blood-shot eyes 
and fierce mien, stood a dog, a great, ugly brute 
whose menacing attitude insured a speedy spring 
upon the defenseless child. She was ready to 
sink to the ground with fear, when there was 
a sound of quickly trampled bushes at her side 


A COMMON MAN. 


27 


and a voice shouted : “ Run for yer boss, quick,” 
and the next instant a barefooted boy in tattered 
garments, and with a knotted stick grasped 
firmly in his hand, dashed to her side. He 
was none too quick, for the maddened brute 
sprang at him fiercely, and received the heavy 
weight of the upraised cudgel on his nose. 
With a yell of pain the dog fell back, but 
only to spring a second time. The hoy again 
swung his weapon aloft and brought it down 
with formidable force on the head of the brute, 
who, staggered instantaneously but not stunned, 
had in another instant fastened his teeth in the 
lad’s left arm. Shortening his stick, the latter 
brought it down with all his force again and 
again on the head of the infuriated animal, who 
was tearing his shoulder savagely. It became 
a question of endurance between the boy and 
the beast. Though scarcely more than a min- 
ute had elapsed, the former was faint from pain 
and loss of blood, and plied his heavy stick with 
a feebler hand. But on the dog, too, the fierce 
combat told heavily. One blinded, blood -shot 
eye protruded from its socket, and the fierce 
tenacity of his hold weakened beneath the rain 


A COMMON MAN. 


28 

of blows that fell upon his head. The struggles 
he had made to reach the throat of his antago- 
nist ceased, and his increasing weight dragged 
upon the mangled shoulder of the boy. The 
latter, feeling rather than seeing the dog’s 
worsted condition, in the lessened tenacity of 
his hold, felt, too, his own growing weakness, 
and with one final effort rained a succession of 
blows upon the brute’s head that loosened his 
fierce hold at last and silenced him forever. 

Guy, who had heard with terror the piercing 
shrieks that Genevieve had uttered after her 
hasty retreat to the road, had rushed to the 
spot with all the speed that the swift pace of ^ 
his hunter could command, and in the moment 
that the vanquished dog fell to the ground, he 
had thrown himself from his panting steed at 
the side of his sister. 

Completely overcome by the terror inspired 
by the deadly conflict that she had just wit- 
nessed, the child could only point hysterically 
to her gallant defender, who, faint and bloody, 
leaned tremblingly upon his rude weapon. In 
an instant Guy was at his side and caught him 
in his arms just as the fainting boy was sinking 


A COMMON MAN. 


29 


to the ground. He had carried him to the road- 
side when Arthur Boyce, whose pace had been 
necessarily slower than that of the better 
mounted Guy, rode up and joined the group. 
Genevieve, whose nerves were sadly unstrung, 
gave a confused recital of the conflict, and when 
Guy learned that the injuries of the boy had 
been incurred in defense of his beloved sister, 
there remained no vestige of doubt in his mind 
as to the immediate course to be pursued. 
While he would carry the slender form of the 
boy on Arthur’s horse, the latter, mounted on 
the fleet hunter, was to ride as fast as that animal 
could carry him to the Fitzhugh home, where he 
was to prepare Mrs. Fitzhugh for their arrival, 
and hasten back with the family carriage to 
meet Guy and his helpless charge. The slight 
w^eight of the latter was a light burden for the 
well-trained muscles of the young college athlete 
who carried him tenderly toward home, while 
Genevieve, gradually growing calmer, related 
the minuter details of the encounter. And Guy 
Fitzhugh, who believed, with all a Southron’s^ 
fanaticism, in gentle blood, looked wonderingly 
on the plebeian features, the tangled hair and 


30 


A COMMON MAN. 


the ragged garments of the young hero in his 
arms. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE VAGUE IDEAS OF A YOUNG BARBARIAN. 

The long journey of four miles had been 
accomplished at last, and John Greystone, 
unconscious, limp and deadly pale, with his 
slender wrist in the hand of the best physician 
in Florissant, lay between snowy linen sheets in 
the Fitzhugh mansion. The physician looked 
gravely at the livid, swollen wounds on the arm, 
shoulder and breast of his patient, and said that 
the extent of danger could only he determined 
by the condition of the dog at the time the 
wounds were inflicted. If the^ dog had not 
been mad, then, rest and good nursing would 
^soon put the boy on his feet again. If the 
animal had been rabid, hydrophobia would 
inevitably ensue. He cauterized the wounds 


A COMMON MAN. 


>B1 

thoroughly, and left with the promise of an 
early call in the morning. 

The boy did not want for careful nursing after 
that. All that refined thoughtfulness could sug- 
gest, and all that wealth could buy, were lav- 
ished upon the little social pariah, whose years 
had hitherto been passed among coarse, unlet- 
tered men and hollow-chested, slatternly women, 
who (young and old, regardless of sex) smoked 
vile tobacco in clay pipes, and were nearer in 
their habits and stunted mental growth to the 
brute creation, than to the cultured inhabitants 
of the home where one of their number was 
sheltered. 

But for all the care that he received, the 
recovery of the patient was slow, and for a 
long time doubtful. The wounds yielded to 
treatment readily enough, but long-borne hard- 
ships, hunger and cold had planted their seeds 
in his system and sprung to fierce life in the 
weakness that had fallen upon him. Conva- 
lescence was slow after the fever — that hol- 
lowed more deeply the gaunt cheeks and wasted 
more cruelly the attenuated form— had spent its 
force. 


32 


A COMMON MAN. 


But the crisis came, and Youth, gazing with 
the fearless stoicism of ignorance upon the dread 
portal of Death, conquered, and staggered back 
feebly into the sunshine of life. 

One of the first thoughts that had suggested 
itself to the mind of Judge Fitzhugh was the 
expediency of acquainting the boy’s parents 
with his critical condition. The prospect of 
the enforced entertainment of these relatives, 
though almost a necessity under the circum- 
stances, was far from pleasant to contemplate. 
Judge Fitzhugh was one of those highly refined 
men who are absolutely pained by evidences of 
ill-breeding in others. He had been so carefully 
brought up himself that he could not abide the 
slightest grossness of manners in any one else, 
and was wont to remark that he would prefer 
as i, vis-a-vis at table the most arrant knave 
who combined good manners with his knavery 
than any honest man who ate with his knife or 
masticated his food audibly. His sensitiveness 
on this point had assumed the proportions of a 
disease, and had been an actual obstacle in his 
legal profession. What member of the legal 
fraternity, present on the occasion, would ever 


A COMMON MAN. 


33 


forget the memorable trial where he stopped 
abruptly in the middle of an eloquent appeal 
to thunder out to his astounded client that if 
he did not stop biting his nails he would throw 
up the case. The interruption was fatal, and 
the man went to the penitentiary for life, not 
for the crime he had committed, but because he 
had bitten his nails. With this historic anec- 
dote in mind, the reader will appreciate the 
relief experienced when the invalid, in answer 
to the inquiry relative to the whereabouts of 
his parents, replied tersely: 

“I ain’t got none; leastways never heerd er 
havin’ none.” 

•^Well!” exclaimed his questioner, actually 
pleased at the doubtful nature of the outcast’s 
parentage; while Genevieve looked wonderingly 
at her mother for an explanation of the unique 
problem, and Miss Fitzhugh vouchsafed a cut- 
ting remark on the unfeeling manner in which 
her brother delighted to probe the wounds of 
others. 

Lying day after day in the heart of that cul- 
tured home, the boy could not fail to receive an 
insight into the unwritten laws of that hitherto 


34 


A COMMON MAN. 


unknown class of society to which its members 
belonged. Quickly observant of every detail in 

the novel phase of existence about him, he won- 

♦ 

dered at first why Judge Fitzhugh, Guy and 
Doctor Shallcross never wore their hats in the 
room. There was no doubt that this was inten- 
tional, at least on the physician’s^ part, for on 
several occasions he had borne his high silk hat 
in hand, and at these times generally accepted 
Mrs. Fitzhugh’s offer to take it from him. “ Do 
let me take your hat, doctor,” she would say, 
naturally enough. And the boy wondered why 
she should want to do it. 

There were no churches in the settlement from 
whence he had wandered, but at rare intervals 
a traveling preacher had spent a Sunday in the 
neighborhood, and, remembering that he was 
a weakly man and that the men had all doffed 
their hats in his presence, he wondered vaguely 
if the gentlemen removed their hats in deference 
to his own enfeebled condition. He noticed, too, 
that if the Judge or Guy were sitting down 
when either of the ladies entered the room, 
they would immediately rise and remain stand- 
ing until the latter were seated. Indeed, the 


A COMMON MAN. 


35 


uniform courtesy which the ladies of the house- 
hold received from the sterner sex was the most 
unaccountable feature of his surroundings. - On 
one occasion Mrs. Fitzhugh had asked him if he 
would not like a glass of water, and he had 
replied in the affirmative. Then, in strange 
contrast to all ethics pertaining to his former 
surroundings, the lady had requested her hus- 
band to go for the water, quite as a matter of 
course, and the latter had instantly risen from 
his easy chair and executed the errand smil- 
ingly. In the barren community where he had 
lived, where the dejected, slovenly, hollow-eyed 
women were like unto beasts of burden, as 
dumbly uncomplaining, he had seen big Bill 
Tubbs knock his wife down because she asked 
him to get a cinder for her pipe. There had 
appeared nothing monstrous to him in the action 
at the time, and if an excuse had been needed 
there was sufficient conveyed in the rough words 
that followed the brutal blow, “ Now, yer derned 
fool, that’ll learn yer ter get yer own cinders.” 
If the question of Bill Tubbs’ right in the mat- 
ter had ever come up in that Land of Darkness, 
he would probably have decided it in the affirma- 


36 


A COMMON MAN. 


tive. Why shouldn’t he beat her? She was his 
own wife just the same as his underfed horse 
was his own. He beat the overburdened horse 
when it staggered at the plow; why shouldn’t 
he beat his wife? Yet so responsive is youth 
that all former convictions (if a child’s ideas 
can be called by the name) were uprooted like 
rotten stalks in the first week of convalescence. 
At first the old life seemed to glide away, to be 
severed from his existence, and appeared to have 
been borne by another than himself. Then its 
horrible deformities became apparent, and it 
grew loathsome at last like a hideous night- 
mare. Like a nightmare it grew unreal as the 
reality of his new surroundings made its im- 
pression on his nature. 

He could not help feeling his own inferiority 
to those about him, ever most keenly in the 
gentle presence of Genevieve. He could not 
read ; he could not have said the alphabet, and 
he had known few people who could write their 
names. 

He acknowledged it bitterly to Genevieve the 
morning that she brought some of her one-syl- 
lable story books to his bedside. She had im- 


A COMMON MAN. 


,37 


mediately volunteered to teach him his letters; 
but the boy had refused, doggedly, saying “ he 
weren’t no scholard, and ’lowed he didn’t want 
no book lamin’.” But he had consented to be 
read to, and never tired of those wonderful tales 
‘that she unfolded to him in her sweet, childish 
voice. Even though the sense of his own abject 
ignorance was most galling when she was near, 
he was never happy in her absence, and would 
have been contented to lie there, weak and help- 
less, for all time, if he could only have looked 
upon her. He asked once to have his bed 
moved nearer to the window; but it was not 
with any wish for a nearer view of the flowers, or 
the trees, or the distant winding road, or the per- 
fect lawn and well-kept gravel walk, that he had 
desecrated with his bare feet on that first morn- 
ing — it was with the wild desire to see more 
often the child that he had saved ; and if she 
were driving or riding he would wait for hours, 
longing for her return, never turning his face 
from the window lest he should miss the first 
glimpse of her dainty form in the distance. 
Smile, oh, reader, if you will, at this child’s 
love, but never yet breathed purer, holier pas- 


38 


A COMMON MAN. 


sion in the heart of man. And no woman, fair 
though she be, will ever have a worthier love 
laid at her shrine than that offered by the boy 
lover who has passed out of her life. And you, 
gentle one, over whose far-off grave the withered 
leaves are drifting, may have learned the depth, 
of a boy’s first love. Would you compare with 
it the vaunted love of the man who has left life’s 
fairest hopes in the green valleys of youth be- 
hind him ; who has torn with wanton hand the 
wondrous blossoms that he worshiped through 
the eyes of a child ; who has found other gods 
than love, and knelt at every shrine that offered 
a nepenthe for the passing hour; who has en- 
tered the lists for the favor of mammon ; who 
has fathomed the depth of woman’s weakness 
and her wrongs— who has learned the lesson of 
self-interest and the cruel law of the survival 
of the fittest; would you compare with this first 
ideal love the* vows of yon sin-wearied wooer of 
your hand? It was natural that he should have 
loved her, as natural as that the lily should open 
its petals to the sun. 


A -COMMON MAN. 


39 


CHAPTER lY. 

AN OLD maid’s HISTORY. 

Miss Fitzhugh was in the boy’s room often- 
est when no other visitor was there. She was 
always dressed well, always as if she expected 
company, and she would sit for hours in her 
listless way, gazing at him vacantly, and never 
uttering a syllable. Sometimes, looking at 
her, he would grow drowsy and sink into a 
restless slumber, but when he wakened he 
would see her still sitting there in the same 
listless attitude, with the same vacant stare in 
her eyes. Once she laughed so suddenly, so 
weirdly,*^ that the usually stolid boy asked 
abruptly what she was laughing at. “Why, 
at the clock,” she said, pointing one thin finger 
toward it. “Didn’t you hear it?” 

“Ho,” answered the boy, incredulously. 

“Ho ? How strange ! The clock says : 

‘ Wait till to-morrow — Wait till to-morrow — 
Wait till to-morrow.’ Listen now, it is talk- 


40 


A COMMON MAN. 


ing again; ‘He is coming — He is coming — He 
is coming,’’’ she- repeated, as if interpreting 
the secret language of the odd-looking black 
clock on the mantel. 

“It hasn’t talked for a long time before,” 
she said, wearily. “ ISTobody else understands 
it. I’m glaH they don’t, for we couldn’t have 
any secrets then. It’s an awful tale-bearer” 
(looking at the carved time-piece half fear- 
fully). “It tells me lots of things they say 
about me. And to think they never know it. 
Listen ; it’s talking : ‘ What a joke — What a 
joke— What a joke.’ ” She nodded at it 
pleasantly as she repeated the words, then, 
turning suddenly on the boy, asked: “Do you 
like Judge Fitzhugh?” 

“Yes,” he answered. 

She bent toward the clock in a listening 
attitude : “ What a joke— What a joke— What 
a joke,” she repeated, in perfect time with the 
swinging pendulum. 

“Why?” asked the outcast. 

“He hates them— He hates them— He hates 
them,” she repeated, weirdly, in answer to his 
question, ever smiling at the clock. 


A COMMON MAN. 


41 


‘‘Hates who?” asked the boy. 

‘ ‘ Common people — Common people — Com- 
mon people.” Then, rising languidly, she 
started to leave the room, but at the threshold 
turned again, and, nodding fantastically at 
the clock, repeated : “ What a joke — What a 
joke— What a joke!” 

That evening Hanette, the slave woman who 
was Miss Fitzhugh’s particular attendant, 
rushed into the room with dilated eyes to in- 
form Judge Fitzhugh that “Miss Tildah had 
him again.” And the Judge hastened from 
the room. A minute later there was a sound 
as of fierce struggling overhead ; then the list- 
ening boy heard one piercing shriek, followed 
by a sound as of a body falling. His temples 
throbbed wildly, and across his mind fiashed 
the hideous memory of the night that Bill 
Tubbs knocked his wife down because she had 
asked for a cinder to light her pipe. 

If there is aught in the new life, John Grey- 
stone, akin to the loathsome past, it is the 
presence of Sin and Sorrow. Locked and 
secreted away in many a lordly mansion, well 
hidden under many a velvet robe, but the S^me 


42 


A COMMON MAN. 


twill sisters that stalked gaunt and bare 
through the turf-covered dwellings of Egypt. 

But let us hasten to the chamber that Aunt 
Tildah calls her own, the dreariest room in all 
the habitation. 

There was no apparent reason why the room 
should have been a dreary one, for it was the 
sunniest in the house, with great broad case- 
ments, a soft carpet and costly old-fashioned 
mahogany furniture. Yet, for all that, it was 
undeniably dreary, even on that bright July 
afternoon. It may have been because of the 
absence of any sign of woman’s handiwork; it 
may have been because of the rigid precision 
with which every article of furniture was 
placed — in strange contrast with the mass of 
spider-webs in the corners of the ceiling ; it 
may have been because of the empty bird-cage, 
with its tarnished gilt wires ; or the lack of 
books on the bare marble-top table ; or the 
lack of fire between the rusty teeth of the un- 
used grate; it may have been because of the 
rotten branch of yonder elm that stretched like 
a gigantic skeleton arm, the fingers fantasti- 
cally twisted against the very casement — 


A COMMON MAN. 


43 


ghastly, clutching fingers, dead fingers that 
one might dread to look through on a moonlit 
night; it may have been because of the dead 
look in the staring eyes of the woman on the. 
bed ; it may have been because of any or all of 
these reasons that the room was dreary, but 
dreary it was — undeniably, oppressively dreary. 
There are few lives that — if laid bare before 
us — would not reveal histories unguessed 
before ; hidden depths of romance, quicksands 
of sin ; years laid waste by the fierce conflict 
of human passion; features of reality — sublime, 
hideous, grotesque — strangely different, all, 
from the masks that hide them in the walks 
of life. 

But a few years before, and there was no 
dearth of suitors for the hand of Tildah Fitz- 
hugh; there was no lighter step in the dance, 
no fairer form on the saddle, no darker eyes in 
the moonlight, no merrier laugh among the 
patrician beauties of all the country round than 
that of Tildah Fitzhugh. She was always a 
nervous, delicate creature, but her peculiar 
temperament only deepened the sensitive roses 
in her cheeks and the scintillant sparkle in her 


44 


A COMMON MAN. 


eyes. She was a dowerless beauty, for her 
father’s second marriage had been a. love match, 
and iN’oel had inherited all of the first wife’s 
property; so it was that all the proud kin of 
the Fitzhughs naturally expected that she would 
select some young wooer with broad acres of 
his own and slaves enough to work them. 

As for her brother, he had no fonder desire, 
and, as far as he could — for in those days 
family prestige ranked above money in South- 
ern society — he drew about her the scions, of 
the wealthiest families among his numerous 
connections and wide circle of acquaintances. 
Careful that she should see more of these 
chosen ones than of others less eligible, his 
interference extended no further, for he was 
a devout believer in the doctrine of propinquity. 
‘‘Whenever I hear of a misalliance, I invari- 
ably blame the parents as the real culprits,” 
he was wont to remark to his young wife, with 
easy confidence. “In nine cases out of ten, 
investigation would prove that they had ut- 
fceiiy ignored the law of propinquity. There 
is nothing more natural than for young people 
to fall in love— I fell in so deep myself once 


A COMMON MAN. 


45 


that I fear I shall never get out again,!’ with 
a smile at Mrs. Fitzhugh. “If they must fall 
in love, it naturally follows that it will be 
with persons of the opposite sex with whom 
they are brought in contact. The problem 
points its own solution: all you have to do is 
to bring them in contact with persons who are 
eligible. When I hear that Miss Vivien de 
Montmorency has eloped with Smith, I don’t 
blame the young lady half as much as I do her 
parents. They should have taken care that she 
did not come in contact with persons like Smith, 
and should have provided a more suitable soil 
for her fancies to take root in by surroundmg 
her with persons of her own station in life. 
Half the marital misery of the country is due 
to the general ignorance of the law of pro- 
pinquity.” 

With this philosophical conclusion in mind, 
the reader can imagine the consternation of the 
profound disciple of propinquity when his 
young wife made the announcement one morn- 
ing that his sister Tildah was engaged to the 
telegraph operator of the town, a young man 
who was not only abominably poor, but was 


40 


A COMMON MAN. 


actually destitute of family connections worthy 
of the name. 

“ Impossible ! ” ejaculated Mr. Fitzhugh, 
pushing away his coffee and laj^ing down the 
journal. He glanced quickly toward his 
sister’s chair, but it was vacant, for she had 
glided from the room only a few moments 
before. 

“Not at all impossible, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Fitzhugh. “On the contrary, it is true.” 

“How do you know? Who has said such a 
thing?” demanded her husband. 

“Tildah told me herself last night, and asked 
me to tell you this morning.” 

Fallen forever the idol of propinquity; fallen 
the simple law that would have let the vision 
roam at will, and bound love within a paling 
that a child’s fancy might have leaped; fallen 
the monument of man’s folly that could think 
to bind young love with so slight a barrier — 
love, before whose strength duty, religion, 
poverty, wealth, caste, are as withered leaves 
in the path of the wind. 

How the young plebeian had met and wooed 
and won the fair patrician are not essential 


A COMMON MAN. 


47 


details to the recital of this story. Yet the 
railway station was not so far from the home 
of the Fitzhughs. The laughing eyes of the 
venturesome young man who kept the tryst in 
the old orchard beamed as softly, if more auda- 
ciously than those of the young gentlemen who 
rode their thoroughbreds over the carriageway; 
there were flower-decked moors and woodland 
dells; there were silvery streams and moonlit 
nights; there was youth and romance; there 
were eager lips that asked all things, and droop- 
ing eyes that refused nothing ; there was a new 
idol raised on the altar of love, and an old one 
shattered on the pedestal of folly. Alas ! for 
the philosophy of propinquity. 

Mr. Fitzhugh was not of a nature to accept 
defeat without a struggle. He sought his sister 
and argued the matter with her calmly. He 
did not attempt to conceal his mortification 
that a Fitzhugh, one of his own blood, should 
have held clandestine meetings with a lover 
whom she could not have openly acknowl- 
edged. While he deplored her youthful folly, 
he would not, could not, believe, on any less 
authority than her own word, that the affair 


48 


A COMMON MAN. 


was anything more serious than a flirtation. 
But Miss Tildah did not hesitate to assure 
him that she intended to marry the man of 
her choice, and all her brother's pleading and 
argument could not alter her determination. 
He urged the disgrace of such an alliance, 
the duty that she owed to her name and fam- 
ily, but she remained obdurate. 

She acknowledged proudly that her lover was 
poor — ^possessing no means beyond his slender 
salary — but said that she would rather live in 
a cabin with him than in a palace with any 
other man in the world. Only when he spoke 
of her delicate health and the impossibility of 
her enduring the hardships that would inevi- 
tably fall to her lot in such a sphere did she 
appear at all affected by her brother’s worldly 
wisdom. Then a shade fell across her face 
momentarily. “That was the only real ob- 
stacle,” she said, “but I told him about it; 
and— and I am going to marry him. He will 
not always be poor.” 

“ Of course you will expect nothing from me 
in the event of such a marriage,” said Mr. Fitz- 
hugh, hotly. 


A COMMON MAN. 


49 


“No,” she answered, with all the scorn of 
youth and love. “He wouldn’t have me take 
a cent from you.” 

So the interview ended, but the determination 
of Noel Fitzhugh never faltered, and from that 
hour the dominant purpose of his life was to 
break the obnoxious engagement. In referring 
to the delicacy of his sister’s health, he had 
alluded to an undeniably serious obstacle to 
the proposed marriage. Though the real 
cause of her weakness had been carefully 
hidden from her, it was one that would have 
been deemed an insurmountable barrier to the 
match by less biased minds than Noel Fitz- 
hugh ’s. Tildah Fitzhugh was an epileptic. 
She had been under skillful treatment, and 
the disease had made but slight progress, yet 
more than once she had fallen in the terri- 
ble spasms incident to the malady. Touched 
by that dread hand, the roses had fled from 
cheeks that assumed the ghastly pallor of 
death; the c[uick gleam of intelligence in the 
soft eyes changed with strange rapidity to a 
fixed stare of vacancy; and over the sensitive 
lips so wondrously fair in health had dribbled 


50 


A COMMON MAN. 


the sluggish froth of epilepsy. Small wonder 
then, that Mr. Fitzhugh dreaded the prospec- 
tive marriage. True, he had desired and in- 
tended that his sister should marry eventually. 
The Louisville specialist whose services he had 
employed had told him that, with constant 
care and proper treatment, ultimate recovery 
would be assured, and she had not wanted for 
the necessary attention. In the event of her 
recovery, which he never doubted, he had 
looked forward to her marriage with some 
man whose wealth could secure for her all 
the comforts and luxuries that would prob- 
ably be necessary for the maintenance of her 
restored health. 

Having failed as signally as might have been 
expected in his interview with the woman, the 
sorely troubled philosopher of propinquity sought 
the man, with the laudable intention of quench- 
ing the flame of love by the force of reason. 
But he found the usually more reasonable 
animal as obdurate as his sister had been and 
as unsusceptible to any practical view of the 
affair. Mr. Fitzhugh had originally conceived 
the reasonable opinion that the successful wooer 


A COMMON MAN. 


51 


had had a view to financial advancement in the 
suit, and had mentall}^ weighed the advisability 
of ingeniously gratifying any desire of that 
nature that might exist. He was a man of 
wide influence and large interests, and could 
have compassed such an arrangement without 
compromising himself by a deliberate offer. 
But, although his prejudice against what he 
termed the common classes was too deeply 
rooted for him to relinquish the hasty conclu- 
sion that he had reached, there was that in the 
young man’s bearing that effectually restrained 
him from venturing upon even the most ingen- 
iously worded propositions regarding his worldly 
advancement. Finally he informed him briefly 
that Tildah was an epileptic. At the terrible 
and unexpected announcement the lover’s cheek 
blanched, and the skillful strategist who had 
dealt the blow exulted over the prospects of a 
speedy victory. But his exultation was short- 
lived. After a moment’s thought the listener 
dismissed the charge from his own mind as 
untrue, as a gross exaggeration uttered for 
the sole purpose of alienating him from the 
object of his love. The mere contemplation 


52 


A COMMON MAN. 


of such a thought was unworthy of him, for 
he and Tildah had previously exhausted the 
subject of the delicate health of the latter, and 
to think that she could have concealed her true 
condition from him was for lov6 to doubt the 
faith of love. 

The lamp burned late that night in Mr. Fitz- 
hugh’s library, where paced a wakeful, sorely 
puzzled man. Keason, family, precedent and 
blood — like propinquity — seemed at fault, and 
he was like a pilot who has lost sails, compass 
and rudder in the storm. He might have tried 
harsher methods — he might have locked his sis- 
ter up, and threatened the audacious parvenu 
who had aspired for alliance with the best blood 
in the country. But his sister’s health was 
of paramount consideration, and her stubborn, 
bold-eyed lover might have proved troublesome ; 
there had never before been a breath of scandal 
on the Fitzhugh name, and, besides, it was not 
Noel Fitzhugh ’s way. Other means of averting 
the catastrophe would offer ; it had been folly to 
proceed to extremities while other measures re- 
mained untried. Meanwhile — and the troubled 
man thanked God devoutly for it — the family 


A COMMON MAN. 


' 5o 

skeleton was connned to that particular locality 
in which skeletons of well conducted and re- 
fined families are popularly believed to abide — 
the closet. 

But the morrow brought with it no. solution 
of the problem and no relief to the anxiety of 
Mr. Fitzhugh. For the first time in his life 
he spoke harshly to his young wife, upbraiding 
her for not having been more watchful of his 
sister. He went through another stormy inter- 
view with the latter, ,by which nothing was 
gained, and the breach between them widened. 
Bitter words were uttered by both, taunting, 
cruel words that could never be forgotten, and 
that left scars upon the memory as the over- 
seer’s lash left scars on the body of the planta- 
tion slaves. 

“Did he tell you that his father was a street- 
car conductor in Boston?” sneered Mr. Fitz- 
hugh. 

“Yes,” she replied, hotly. “And that his 
mother was a seamstress ; but if you have 
anything to say against them, you had better 
say it to him. He is in the old orchard now, 
and I am going there to meet him,” 


54 


A COMMON MAN. 


‘‘You are not,” thundered her brother, and, 
darting before her, slammed the door violently, 
locked it and placed the key in his pocket. 

The baffled woman gave him one look of 
deadly hatred, then fell to the floor in violent 
spasms. Hastily unlocking the door, he called 
loudly for assistance, and Mrs. Fitzhugh, fol- 
lowed by the servants, rushed into the room. 
In that moment the fearful contortions of the 
afflicted woman suggested a sudden thought to 
her brother, who bade Zekiel run to the old 
orchard as fast as he could and tell the gentle- 
man there that Miss Fitzhugh wished to see 
him at the house immediately. Rushing up to 
the expectant lover with dilated eyes and awe- 
stricken visage, the negro delivered his message, 
and added that “ Miss Tildah was jes took 
awful.” Fear lent wings to the feet of the 
young man. He flew toward the house, and as 
he dashed up the steps he met Mr. Fitzhugh. 

“Tildah!” he gasped; “where is she?” 

Without a word, Mr. Fitzhugh conducted 
him to the room where the stricken woman lay 
in agonizing struggles. “It is an epileptic fit,” 
he whispered, holding the young man back as 


A COMMON MAN. 


5 


he would have rushed to her side. There wa^ 
nothiug more said. What use for v/ords, with 
that helpless wreck of womanhood before them, 
fearful, silent eloquence in every struggle. It 
was difficult to recognize in the livid face before 
him the fair features of the woman of his love. 
It was a bitter blow that had fallen with bitter 
suddenness, and the young man pressed his 
hands to his face as if the sight were more than 
he could bear. But more bitter than the 
thought of her agony, more bitter than all else 
in that supreme moment of mental torture, was 
the conviction that forced itself upon him. 
^‘And she never told me,” he muttered, as if 
oblivious of all else save the thrice bitter knovd- 
edge that v/here he had trusted so loyally — 
blindly as only love trusts — he had been de- 
ceived. “Come away,” he heard some one say, 
at last, and, mechanically obeying the voice 
and the touch upon his arm, he followed Mr. 
Fitzhugh into that gentleman’s library. 

“Be seated,” said the latter, but the request 
was ignored or unheard, and both men remained 
standing. 

“I think you will see now the impossibility of 


56 


A COMMON MAN. 


a marriage between my sister and yourself,’’ 
said Mr. Fitzhugh. ‘‘As I told you once 
before, she is an epileptic, and the scene that 
you have just witnessed is not an unusual one. 
It is only through the constant treatment and 
attention that wealth commands that her recov- 
ery can be hoped for, and even then a life of 
luxury will be necessary for her. You will see 
— you cannot fail to understand that marriage 
is out of the question.” 

“Out of the question,” repeated the young 
man slowly, and as if to himself. Out of the 
question forever, with that betrayed trust before 
him. He drew his hand across his eyes as if to 
clear his mental vision; then he said; “I will 
not see her again. Tell her for me that, above 
everything in this world, I will hope always for 
her peace and happiness. Tell her that if she 
ever blames herself for anything, in thinking of 
me, that I forgave her freely before I left this 
room. ’ ’ 

The enigmatical nature of the words non- 
plused Mr. Fitzhugh, but he was affected by the 
evident emotion of the man who had uttered 
them. 


A COMMON MAN. 


57 


“If I can do anything for you, away from 
here,” he began, but the other stopped him with 
an impatient gesture. There was a moment of 
awkward silence; then he turned and left the 
house and disappeared in the orchard. That 
night he looked his last upon Florissant, and 
was never seen there again ; but Tildah Fitz- 
hugh never married, and there was a skeleton 
in the closet and a clock in the house that 
talked. 


CHAPTER Y. 

“blood is blood.” 

The boy upstairs was growing better, as was 
daily evidenced by his increasing appetite. The 
typhoid fever that had followed the shock con- 
sequent on the dog’s bites had been conquered 
by the pellets and powders of the grave gentle- 
man in black, who announced the danger past 
about the same time that his patient arrived at 
a satisfactory conclusion as to the cause of the 
daily removal of the physician’s hat. 


58 


A COMMON MAN. 


But if the inoffensive and professional-looking 
tile of the learned Doctor Shallcross had been a 
problem for the boy, the latter had been a no 
less perplexing problem for Judge Fitzhugh, 
presenting itself in the formula of “What shall 
I do with him?” 

When the Judge reflected that he might have 
been one of a dozen ragged brothers and sisters 
who might have preferred exorbitant demands 
for gratitude at all times and seasons for all time 
to come, he thanked his stars that Genevieve’s 
protector had been a foundling, instead of one 
of the ragged tribe that his fancy had created 
in the potential mood. As the boy’s strength 
increased, the subject of his future became one 
of discussion in the household. The Judge 
himself had thought of retaining him in his 
service as an assistant gardener, where he could 
be kept under proper supervision and restrained 
from his unfortunate nomadic tendencies, and 
at the same time learn a useful trade, which 
would secure him a means of livelihood in the 
sphere to which he had been born. As to the 
amount of gratitude due the outcast, the Judge 
had repudiated all romantic ideas and naturally 


A COMMON MAN. 


59 


based it upon purely reasonable grounds. Doc- 
tor Shallcross had told him that while the dog’s 
attack had precipitated the toy’s illness, there 
was a prior cause in the deprivations that he 
had suffered, a cause that was bound to have 
its effect sooner or later in a severe attack of 
illness, and it really had been to his advantage 
that the fever had come upon him in the lux- 
urious Fitzhugh mansion instead of on the 
roadside. 

Guy — who had not yet reached the philo- 
sophical plane where the exalted ideas of his 
father had their being, and who had not studied 
as profoundly the depths of cause and effect, 
aided by the vision of the astute medical prac- 
titioner— frankly expressed the opinion that too 
much could not be done for the boy. His solu- 
tion of the problem was to have him sent to the 
same school that he attended, and entered in 
the primary branches. • With a thorough edu- 
cation and the proper influences about him his 
future would be assured, and with these advan- 
tages he saw no reason why all spheres would 
not be open to him. This was a very radical 
view for a Fitzhugh, and one that the head of ^ 


60 


A COMMON MAN. 


that patrician family was not likely to espouse. 
“Blood was blood” in his mind, and the course 
proposed by his son would only force the boy 
into a life of endless humiliations that would 
increase as he progressed in his studies. J udge 
Fitzhugh had never believed in the education 
of the masses ; in truth, he was bitterly opposed 
to it, and consistency forbade him to harbor 
such a plan. As for Mrs. Fitzhugh, that esti- 
mable lady had very few ideas of her own, and 
had never found it necessary to cultivate them ; 
but she did believe in the remarkable asser- 
tion of her husband that “blood was blood,” and 
could not fail to observe the difficulties that 
would be entailed by following the course pro- 
posed by Guy. 

“ Class distinction is a necessary institu- 
tion, my son,” said the Judge, with an elo- 
quent wave of his hand; “and when you get 
to be my age you will’ understand it as I do 
now.” And Mrs, Fitzhugh was fain to agree 
with the wisdom of those words. 

Had the Judge known it, he might have 
pointed an illustration from the fact that the 
unconscious subject of their discussion had 


A COMMON MAN. 


61 


already learned his first lesson of caste in 
enforced observation of his surroundings. He 
felt that he was unaccountably different from 
this new order of people, and that all those he 
had known before were different. He could 
not help acknowledging that he himself was 
very much like the young relatives of the 
memorable Bill Tubbs and other juvenile in- 
habitants of Egypt. He quickly conceived the 
idea that Judge Fitzhugh was a man of incal- 
culable wealth, and gradually arrived at the 
easy conclusion that it was the possession of 
this wealth that made the main difference be- 
tween the Fitzhughs and the Tubbses. If Bill 
Tubbs could have dressed always in brand- 
new clothes and been driven in a buggy 
behind a fleet, strong horse, instead of driv- 
ing an ill-fed, lame one in a broken-down cart, 
it stood to reason that he would not have been 
so filthy in appearance or so cruel to the horse ; 
and if he had had black people to do every- 
thing he said, he wouldn’t have knocked his 
wife down when she wanted a cinder for her 
pipe, but would have simply told one of the 
black people to get it for her. One final object 


62 


A COMMON MAN. 


in tho boy’s mind was fixed : he did not want to 
be like the Tubbs boys any more, and he did 
want ver}" much to be like Master Gu}^, or as 
much like him as a boy of fifteen could be like 
a 3"oung man who measured five feet eleven and 
had a mustache. 

It was at this period, and when he had grown 
so much stronger that Doctor Shallcross had 
promised to let him go downstairs the next 
day, that the following conversation was 
wafted to his eager ears from the veranda 
below: “Have you heard the latest about the 
Ronan boys, Martha?” asked Mrs. Kenwood, 
who had driven in with her husband and Miss 
Leonard to spend the day with Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“Do you mean those Ronan boys who used 
to live over near Bainbridge?” questioned the 
hostess. 

“Yes, those are the boys. You remember 
they went out to California three years ago. 
Well, they say they have struck a real bonanza 
out there — millions.” 

“You don’t mean it!” said Judge Fitzhugh. 
“Why, they had a hard time getting enough 
money to buy an ox team when they started. 


A COMMON MAN. 


63 


They were worthless boys, too, and came from 
common stock. Old Ronan used to run a canal 
boat up north somewhere, and he had a brother 
who was tried for counterfeiting.” 

There seems no limit to the amount of gold 
in that country,” said Major Kenwood. “There 
have been a score of fabulous fortunes taken 
from the mines there in as many weeks. Men 
start out there with an ox-team, a kit of mining 
tools and a wagon-load of ragged children, and 
a few months later we hear that they are mil- 
lionaires. If it keeps on, the Eastern States 
will be depopulated, and we’ll have a new 
country made up of plebeian capitalists.” 

“It certainly looks ominous,” assented the 
host. “Who do you think is the latest mil- 
lionaire elect?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure, unless it is Eze- 
kiel,” laughingly. 

“No, sir; it’s that miserable old scamp Clay- 
peck. He asked me very cooll}^ this morning 
to lend him a hundred dollars to buy an outfit, 
and said he’d send me back two hundred six 
months after he reached the gold field.” 

“ I suppose that older Ronan boy will come 


64 


A COMMON MAN. 


back now and marry Jessie Llorral,” said Mrs. 
Fitzhiigii. ‘‘You know he was awfullj^ in love 
with her.” 

“I hardly think, my dear,” interposed her 
husband, “that Llorral would give his con- 
sent. True, he does not belong to our first 
families, but his people are far above the 
Konans. The Konans, my dear, are very 
common people. Why, Llorral wouldn’t let 
the girl see young Eonan for some time be- 
fore he left.” 

“I have always thought that was the very 
reason he went awa}^,” remarked Guy, who was 
usually given to romantic ideas in the presence 
of Miss Leonard. 

“I tell you. Judge, times have changed since 
we were boys,” quoth the Major. “Money 
buys everything now, and though young Ro- 
nan, poor, might have wooed Jessie Llorral for 
a lifetime, and died a wooer, young Eonan, 
rich, will come back here and marry her in a 
fortnight, if he v/ants to.” 

“I have always maintained — ” began the 
Judge, v/hen there was a tinkle of goblets in 
the distance. 


A COMMON MAN. 


65 


“Oh, here is Zekiel with the sangaree,” said 
Mrs. Fitzhugh. “Major, this is made after 
my own recipe, and I want your candid opin- 
ion as to its merits.” 

The connoisseur sipped the tempting beverage , 
thoughtfully. “It is excellent, excellent,” he 
said. “Judge, may I ask where you purchased 
this claret?” And what Judge Fitzhugh had 
always maintained was lost to history. 

The conversation gradually drifted into small 
talk. The ladies discussed impartially the 
merits and demerits of their friends and the 
new fashion in bonnets, and naturally drifted 
into scandal. 

The gentlemen talked of horses and cattle, 
crops and niggers, and as naturally drifted into 
politics — a harmonious field where all Southern 
! gentlemen could meet amicably, even at that 
early day, in a general and reasonable con- 
demnation of the Yankees. 

The young beauty from Louisville and Guy, 
at their own end of the veranda, wandered a 
million leagues away from the fields of scandal 
I and politics in the amaranth realm of romance, 

I and saw new beauties in the sunset and reve- 


66 


A COMMON MAN. 


lations in the stars. And Genevieve caught 
fire-flies on the lawn and raced on the gravel 
walk with Don, a very courtier in his pretense 
of inability to keep pace with her light foot- 
steps. The evening waned, and, the hour of 
departure having arrived, the Keiiwoods drove 
away and the Fitzhughs disappeared from the 
veranda, Guy— looking pensively in the direc- 
tion taken by the Kenwood carriage— being 
the last to go. 

Then another group took noiseless possession 
of the broad portico : female figures in costumes 
of a generation before, and erect male figures, 
who remained standing with grave punctilious- 
ness until the ladies were seated. They chatted 
in high, cracked voices of bonnets and neigh- 
bors; of politics and “niggahs ” ; of youth and 
love. They were so very well bred that the 
air exhaled by their thin nostrils assumed a 
slight bluish tinge, and a male figure squeaked 
out complacently that “ blood was blood.” 
There was not an old maid among them — not 
one ; and the skeleton upstairs in the closet 
never put in an appearance. But the clock 
heard every word that they said, and in the 


A COMMON MAN. 


67 


dreariest room in the house the shadow of the 
skeleton hand at the casement crept slowly 
across the moonlit floor, very slowly, but 
always toward the still flgure on the bed; 
grasping at everything within its reach— at 
the chair, where she sat for hours at a time 
brooding; at her clothing; at a slender band 
of gold on her finger. It glided up the 
shrunken arm to the wasted breast and the 
thin throat, and to her very face, touching 
stealthily the colorless lips, the hollow cheeks, 
the circles under her closed eyes, the gray 
strands in her loose hair, making mystic signs 
over her forehead like the weird hand of an 
invisible necromancer who had hypnotized 
her. 

With the gray streaks of dawn the ghosts 
disappeared decorously from the veranda, the 
shadowy gentlemen standing motionless by 
their chairs until the last lady had withdrawn, 
and a few minutes later a common boy, so 
very common that he would have been petrified 
in the refined blue air that they had breathed, 
opened the hall door noiselessly and struck out 
across the lawn for the road. 


68 


A COMMON MAN. 


And it was full three hours later when 
Dinah, with consternation depicted on her 
shining black face, informed Mrs. Fitzhugh, 
who had rung for her: “Dat boy hab runned 
away. Jes’ got up by hisself an’ runned away 
in de* night-time.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

CHANGED FORTUNES. 

‘‘You remember that boy who ran away 
from us so mysteriously thirteen years ago, 
Martha?” asked Judge Fitzhugh on his return 
from down town late one afternoon. 

“Yes,” replied his wife, looking up ques- 
tioningly. 

“Well, that boy and the Northern capitalist 
who came into town yesterday as a probable 
purchaser of the Alanson coal-mines are one 
and the same.” 

“You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitz- 
hugh. “It seems impossible!” 

“Well, it’s all very simple and at the same 


A COMMON MAN. 


69 


time appears extraordinary. It’s another story 
of a bonanza gold-mine. After he ran away 
from here he worked his way out to California, 
though how he did it the Lord only knows. 
Once there, he struck out for the gold country 
and worked for years in the mines with vary- 
ing success. Finally he struck it rich, and is 
part owner now in one of the biggest bonanzas 
in California. They say down town that he 
can sign his check for a million.” 

‘‘How do you know he is the same boy we 
had here? Have you seen him?” 

“Fo, but Lockwood told me. You know 
he is trying to sell the Alanson mines to him, 
and drove him out there this morning to look 
at them. Well, he told Colonel Lockwood that 
he had tramped all over Florissant barefooted 
thirteen years ago, and, as his name is an 
uncommon one, there is no doubt he is the 
very same boy.” 

At that moment the graceful figure of a 
young girl was seen through the foliage at the 
further end of the lawn. “I wonder what 
Genevieve would think of him now?” Judge 
Fitzhugh questioned. 


70 


A COMMON MAN. 


His wife looked up with the faintest express 
sion of astonishment on her face. hardly 
think she will see anything of him,’’ she said. 
Then, as if on second thought: “I suppose, 
though, he will come here before he leaves 
town. Maybe he will consider us in a manner 
under obligations to him. Do you think he 
will?” 

“I don’t know. I hardly think so. With 
his immense wealth we could not be of auj- 
service to him now, unless possibly in a soci d 
way.” 

“He could scarcely expect that,” said Mrs 
Fitzhugh, raising her head a little proudly. 
“I should think social recognition would be as 
awkward for him as it would be for us. You 
remember what an ignorant, common boy he 
was. He came from the very commonest class 
of people. I don’t suppose thirteen years of 
that rough Western life have improved him 
any.” 

“Yo,” assented the husband. 

“It was fortunate that dreadful dog attacked 
him instead of Genevieve,” continued Mrs, 
Fitzhugh, glancing toward the graceful form 


* A COMMON MAN. 7X 

near the gate. “Guy’’— the mother’s voice 
trembled slightly at that name — *^Guy always 
declared that the boy voluntarily imperiled his 
life to save Genevieve.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Judge Fitzhugh; “but 
I always thought it improbable. Genevieve 
was frightened almost to death, and never 
could give a clear account of it. The boy must 
have been on the spot at the time, and, being 
more aggressive, would seem the more natural 
object of the brute’s attack. However, we did 
all we could for him, and we couldn’t have 
foreseen his running away.” 

After a silence of several minutes. Judge 
Fitzhugh said aloud, yet musingly, as though 
to himself: “There’s enough coal in that old 
field . yonder beyond the orchard to fuel Chris- 
tian County for a century. There is a fortune 
waiting there for any man who will take the 
trouble and has the means to dig it out.” 

“Don’t you think you could begin mining it 
in a small way?” asked Mrs. Fitzhugh. , 

“No; it is out of the question. The place 
is mortgaged now up to the last notch, and that 
cursed — I heg your pardon, Martha — Hyson 


72 


A COMMON MAN. 


knows I won’t be able to pay the interest in 
October. He knows as well as I do the value 
of that coal-field, and he is just waiting until 
he has turned me out to start the mines and 
make a fortune out of my property — property 
that has been in my family for seventy-five 
years.” The man rose from his seat and paced 
the veranda with restless strides, while Mrs. 
Fitzhugh looked at him anxiously. 

‘‘Couldn’t you borrow enough to make a 
start on from some of our friends?” she asked, 
hesitatingly, at last. 

“Our friends haven’t any money to loan out 
at the present time,” he answered, bitterly, 
pausing near her chair. “There are not a half 
dozen farms in the county unmortgaged to-day, 
and God knows where it is all going to end. 
I had thought of trying to interest Northern 
capital, but what would be the use ? The 
Yankees would know my helplessness, and 
would hardly form a benevolent association 
for my benefit. Even if I made the attempt, 
Ryson would know of it, and checkmate me. 
He’s a Yankee himself.” 

The Judge resumed his restless stride in 


A COMMON MAN. 


73 


silence. There was something on his mind of 
which he wished to speak, but he waited in 
the hope that his wife would mention it first. 
Perhaps the. idea never entered her head at all, 
or it may have been that she divined her hus- 
band’s thoughts, and shrank from discussion 
of the subject, for the latter was again the first 
to break the silence. “It wouldn’t cost John 
Greystone one-tenth as much to lift that mort- 
gage as it would to buy the Alanson mines, 
and it would be a better investment for him,” 
he said, at last. 

“Would he do it?” asked Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“ I can’t say until I have seen him ; but it is 
worth the trial — well worth it. I will go down 
and see him right after supper. And, see here, 
Martha, I’ll have to take him over the ground 
to-morrow, and I don’t see how I can very well 
avoid inviting him to the house.” 

“You can have the library ail to yourselves.” 

“I don’t mean that,” said Judge Fitzhugh. 
“ It is possible that the man may want to be 
invited here socially. I don’t say that he will, 
but it is possible. If he does, it will be as dis- 
agreeable for me as it will be for you, but if he 


74 


A COMMON MAN. 


looks at my offer favorably, and his acceptance 
of it depends on an invitation to dinner, we 
will have to invite him, that is all. I don’t see 
any way out of it.” 

As the reader already knows, thirteen years 
have passed by since we last visited at the 
aristocratic home of the Fitzhughs. For them, 
as for thousands of other wealthy families in 
the stricken South, those years had been fraught 
with events stirring enough, sad enough to have 
filled a lifetime. 

Judge Fitzhugh had organized one of the first 
regiments raised in the State, and had marched 
away at its head under a silken banner, the 
stars and bars of which had been wrought 
daintily by the fair hands of patrician beau- 
ties who put their very souls into the work; 
who girded on their husband’s swords; who, 
in the last years of the terrible conflict, when 
defeat was inevitable, when ruin stalked nearer 
to the impoverished homes in every successive 
battle lost, sent their striplings into the field, 
and alone among their helpless little ones fought 
the wolf of want from the door. 


A COMMON MAN. 


. 75 

Guy — handsome, generous-hearted Guy, fresh 
from the honors of college, first in the empire 
of the mother’s heart— -Captain Guy Fitzhugh, 
had ridden gayly away one bright morning. 
Gallantly erect in his new uniform rode Cap- 
tain Guy on his black charger, bright shone the 
polished scabbard at his side, soft nestled the 
sunny lock of Genevieve’s hair on his young 
heart; but there were tears in the straining 
eyes that watched the brilliant cavalcade as it 
wound slowly out of sight. What were the 
mighty issues in the mother’s mind? What 
mattered the freedom of the wretched blacks 
or the stronger binding of their chains? What 
mattered the secession of the South or its reten- 
tion in the Union, to the mother? Her boy, her 
Guy, had ridden away to the field of slaughter. 
Well may the mother look long at her departing 
son ; well may she rush up the stairs and to the 
highest window for one more glance at the 
familiar form, at the flowing locks of her boy, 
for never again will she see him. Death, that 
spared the gray-haired father, sought the son in 
the glory of youth, found him charging at the 
head of his company, with a shout on his lips 


76 


A COMMON MAN. 


and bared sword in bis hand — and smote him 
down. 

When the bitter end came at last, General 
Fitzhugh returned home to find himself well- 
nigh penniless. His five hundred negroes had 
been made free men, and the remnant of his 
broad acres that remained had been mortgaged 
heavily to meet the wants of the helpless ones 
at home. He raised a further small sum on the 
land and somehow or other managed to get 
along. 

The Fitzhugh horses went and the Fitzhugh 
carriage went, and several costly paintings and 
many rare books went, and, in the course of 
time, even the Fitzhugh diamonds went; but 
the dignity, the prestige of the Fitzhugh blood 
remained in the proud potency of better days, 
as immovable as the faithfulness of Uncle 
Zekiel and Aunt Dinah, the only darkies who 
had not run away from the old homestead. 
General Fitzhugh in his faded broadcloth was 
as exacting as ever the Judge had been in the 
brightest days of prosperity. Mrs. Fitzhugh, 
who walked down town in her turned silk, 
received as many bows, as many friendly 


A COMMON MAN. 


77 


glances as ever Mrs. Fitzhngh in carriage and 
diamonds had received. Miss Genevieve Fitz- 
hugh, in that simple muslin dress, with a knot 
of ribbon about her slender waist and a rose 
in her bonny hair, was the acknowledged belle 
of the county. And, pray, why shouldn’t she 
be? She, the daughter of the first family! 
The blue blood of the Fitzhugh race remained 
untainted, and that proud family accepted, as 
the most natural thing in the world, the defer- 
ence of many of their less heavily mortgaged 
neighbors. 

“Family, sir,” the Judge would say, with 
a graceful wave of his right hand, “ is recog- 
nized only in the South, sir. In the North, 
sir, your social standing depends on your bank 
account. A tanner, a cobbler, a blacksmith, 
can secure a social entree in the North if his 
bank account is only large enough, and his 
sons and daughters marry into the best cii-cles 
— God save the mark! — if the marriage settle- 
ment is only big enough, sir. Thank God, 
sir, it is different with us. Blood is blood in 
the South, sir.” And no one disputed that 
remarkable assertion. 


78 


A COMMON MAN. 


The one member of the family who had been 
changed least by time and trouble — ■ perhaps 
because her whole mind and body had been 
warped so much already by those potent 
causes — was Aunt Tildah. Her hair was a 
little grayer, her antipathy toward the Judge 
a little more apparent, her form a little more 
wasted, and her conversations with the black 
clock a trifle more frequent and prolonged ; but, 
for all that, you would have found her the least 
changed of any in the household. I am not 
sure that she did not derive a certain amount 
of secret pleasure from the misfortunes of her 
brother. 

There were two new-comers to whom the 
reader has not yet been introduced. Both had 
entered the community perfect strangers, and 
yet — though they had come unrecommended, 
were homely to a degree, were troublesome 
and^noisy, though they spoke an unintelligible 
jargon of their own, and, while belonging to 
the sterner sex, exhibited no more appreciation 
for the charms of the Florissant fair than for 
the plausible doctrines of Judge Fitzhugh — 
strange as it may seem, they had been wel- 


A COMMON MAN. 


79 


corned into the sacred precincts of the Fitz- 
hugh home and into the best social circle of 
Florissant, and were even more popular with 
the young ladies than with members of their 
own sex. At this momentous period of the 
family history the elder was twelve years old 
and the younger ten, and it is unnecessary to 
state that both were Fitzhughs. 

And with this re-introduction to old friends 
and a brief glimpse at the changed circum- 
stances that surrounded them, the reader will 
better understand the conversation that has 
been held by Judge and Mrs. Fitzhugh on 
the subject of one John Greystone. 

Uncle Zekiel’s best efforts had been expended 
on his master’s apparel that evening ere the 
latter set out for the “City Hotel,” where Mr. 
Greystone had taken up his quarters. It was 
significant of the latter’s plebeian origin that 
he had chosen that hotel instead of the “ South- 
ern,” which was always patronized by the best 
families. 

As to the respective merits of the two hostle- 
ries, I can only say that the one to which the 
Judge is now directing his footsteps is the 


80 


A COMMON MAN. 


favorite resort of traveling salesmen, a respect- 
able class of gentlemen known more widely un- 
der the significant appellation of “drummers.” 

Our ’pedestrian was the recipient of numer- 
ous salutes (military recognition being quite 
in vogue at that period) as he passed down the 
streets, and, as the titles of major, colonel, 
captain and even general were, constantly on 
his lips in the recognition of the salutes, it is 
presumed that Florissant held its own as a 
Southern city in the matter of titles. The 
gratification of that affable proprietor, Mr. 
Sharpe, at the unwonted appearance of blue 
blood in his establishment was undisguised. 

“Is Mr. Greystone in?” asked the Judge, j 

“Yes, sir. Would you like to see him?” 

“Just send this card to him, will you?” said 
the Judge. 

“Yes, sir. Sambo, take this card to Colonel 
Greystone, and” {sotto voce) “tell me how 
many lamps is burnin’ in his room. Won’t 
you have a chair. Judge?” 

“ISTo, I thank you,” the latter responded. 
He preferred not to be seen seated in the lobby 
of the “City Hotel.” 


A COMMON MAN. 


81 


Sambo presently returned with the informa- 
tion that Colonel Greystone had said, “ would 
de gemman please walk upstairs,” and (to Mr. 
Sharpe) “dey was twelb lamps burning in de 
Colonel’s room.” 

Judge Fitzhugh was conducted by Mr. 
Sharpe himself to the apartments of his lamp- 
loving guest, who rose and approached his 
visitor as the latter entered. 

“Welcome to Florissant, Mr. Greystone,” 
said the older man, affably, as they shook 
hands. 

“I am trying to make myself comfortable 
here,” said his host. “I see you notice the 
illumination. That man Sharpe had one smoky 
lamp in this room, and I told him to buy a 
dozen more at my expense. I had a new carpet 
put down, too. There’s nothing like enjoying 
civilization.” 

“iSTothing, Mr. Greystone,” assented the 
Judge, whose attention had, indeed, been 
attracted by the formidable array of lamps. 

“Have a cigar?” said the other, handing 
him a box. “They’re good ones ; twenty-five 
dollars a hundred.” 


82 


A COMMON MAN. 


‘‘Ah, indeed! There is nothing like a good 
cigar,” remarked the Judge, pleasantly, as he 
selected one from the box. 

Now Mr. Greystone, having also helped him- 
self, bit off one end of the weed unevenly, 
lighted it over one of the many illuminators, 
and proceeded to puff at it fiercely. Not so 
the connoisseur before him. That gentleman 
carefully cut the end of his cigar, then, placing 
the other end in his mouth, blew any particles 
of dust from the filler, and, abstracting a lucifer 
from a silver match-box that his great grand- 
father had used, lighted his cigar in as lei- 
surely, as gentlemanly, a manner as ever cigar 
was lighted. He enjoyed a good cigar — as 
who does not in that tobacco-growing country? 
— and his plans assumed tangible form in the 
curling smoke. 

“I only heard of your arrival among us 
this morning,” he said. “I heard you had 
come down as a prospective purchaser of the 
Alanson mines.” 

“I hadn’t heard of the mines before,” said 
Greystone. “Mr. Lockwood called and made 
me an offer and drove me out there to see them.” 


A COMMON MAN. 


83 


“Then you don’t think of purchasing?” 

“Well, I guess gold-mining is good enough 
for me,” replied Greystone, boastingly. 

“This is a capital cigar,” remarked the other. 
“There is a great deal of money to be made out 
of coal in this section.’^ 

“The inhabitants don’t seem to be making 
fortunes out of it,” quoth Greystone. 

“That is very true, sir, though there has 
been a round sum taken from those Alanson 
mines. Not as much now as formerly, how- 
ever. The fact is, I called this evening for the 
very purpose of making an offer of a coal- 
mine myself, sir. Of course, if you do not 
wish to invest, I shall not press it. It is too 
good a thing to require pushing.” 

“You have a mine, too, then? Lockwood 
told me he had a monopoly.” 

“Well, he has, just at present,” said the 
Judge ; “ but he won’t have long. I tell you, 
sir, I have more coal right under my timber- 
land than could be taken out of the Alanson 
mines in a thousand years.” 

“Why don’t you dig it out?” asked the 
practical Californian. 


84 


A COMMON MAN. 


The Judge finished a very long puff before 
he responded. Diplomacy suggested the wis- 
dom of concealing the very stringent condition 
of his financial affairs. ‘‘Well, you see, I never 
have been much of a business man,” he said, 
confidentially. “I had an idea the coal was 
there long before I found it, but I didn’t need 
the money, sir, and, though I always intended 
mining it some day, I just kept putting it off 
and putting it off till the war came along. 
Well, sir, there wasn’t much chance for coal- 
mining in Kentucky during the war. Since 
then — well, since then, I couldn’t tell yon just 
why I haven’t run a shaft. Beady money is 
not quite as plenty with us as it used to be, and 
I’ve thought latel}^ that I’d rather sell the prop- 
erty, or at least an interest in it.” 

“I shouldn’t think you would want to give 
it up,” said Gre3^stone, questioningly. 

“That is because j^ou are young and I am 
getting old, sir. A man at sixty hasn’t the 
energy and ambition of thirty; and, besides, I 
never had any business push. I realized my 
own deficiency in that regard by comparison 
with others. You remember the old saying 


A COMMON MAN. 


85 


that we always desire most the unattainable. 
Well, sir, that is precisely m'y case. I don’t 
know any trait that I admire more than energy. 
I congratulate you, sir, on yours. If you had 
my land — with the splendid energy, the ambi- 
tion, the intellectual strength that have already 
v/on for you so much well-deserved success — 
you would open up a mine that would be coin- 
ing money for you when the Alanson mines 
had fallen into decay.” 

“Judge Fitzhugh, you ought to work those 
mines yourself,” said Greystone. 

“Yes, I know I ought to,” replied the un- 
business-like owner of those vast coal-fields, 
the character he had assumed emphasized by 
the enervation of his tone and manner. “I 
wish you’d come over and take a look at the 
field. What are you going to do to-mor- 
row?” 

“Nothing,” replied Greystone, with an eager- 
ness that did not pass unnoticed. 

“Well, come over and take dinner with .us, 
then. We dine at five.” 

“Thank you, I’ll be on hand. Take another 
cigar. Put a handful in your pocket.” 


86 


A COMMON MAN. 


“Really, really, my dear sir!” expostulated 
the Judge. 

“Oh! you needn’t be afraid of their running 
out. I’ve got lots more, and there ain’t a man 
about the place that don’t smoke at my expense. 
Why, I give ’em to the niggers. Good-night. 
I’ll be on hand to-morrow for dinner. ’ ’ 

Did! indeed must be the ear that is unsus- 
ceptible to flattery. In that flattering allu- 
sion to the young man’s energy and ambition 
the diplomate had executed a master stroke. 
You don’t believe in the potency of flattery? 
You don’t believe a strong man or a wise 
woman would be weak enough to yield to its 
influence? Try it, and you will see. Tell Miss 
Simper that she is beautiful; tell Miss Warble 
that there is more pathos in her voice than 
you have ever heard before; tell Miss Suffrage 
that you had thought until you met her that 
all women’s-rights women were old and homely. 
Tell Senator Prosy that the speech you heard 
him make changed your political faith ; tell 
the Rev. Mr. Sopp that only his sermons turned* 
you from the path of perdition. Only try it, 
I repeat, and you will see. ISTay, look into your 


A COMMON MAN. 


87 


own heart of hearts and see if your regard for 
Miss Taffy does not date from the day that she 
remarked your perfect manners and the intel- 
lectuality of your conversation ; if you have not 
had a kindly feeling for Mr. Crocodile ever 
since he told your friend that your column was 
the best thing in the Post. Ah, well, there is 
one great compensation in it all, and that is 
that we seldom realize the flattery. Vanity of 
vanities, we silently flatter the flatterer in our 
improved opinion of his powers of appreciation 
and discernment. 

When Judge Fitzhugh returned home he 
found the ladies on the veranda. “Well, Mr. 
Greystone will dine with us to-morrow,” he 
said as he seated himself. 

“You haven’t really invited him to dinner, 
have you?” asked Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“I really have, my dear, and he accepted the 
invitation.” 

“Has he improved much? Is he at all re- 
flned?” asked Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“He has undoubtedly improved,” replied her 
husband. “How much, I will allow you to 
judge for yourself. As to his refinement, I 


88 


A COMMON MAN. 


suppose there are degrees of refinement. I 
didn’t find him barefooted or ragged, and he 
wears a diamond stud that rivaled the combined 
brilliancy of the twelve lamps in his room. He 
considers illumination one of the special priv- 
ileges of wealth, and I suppose by to-morrow 
night he will have an extra dozen lighted.” 

“ How odd, papa ! ” exclaimed a musical 
voice. 

“He has bought a dazzling red carpet for his 
room,” continued the Judge, “and he treats 
everybody, including drummers and niggers, to 
twenty-five-cent cigars. He insisted on my 
carrying a dozen home with me. He is nat- 
urally well satisfied with himself, and might 
be worse; but, on the whole, I don’t think I 
can say he is refined. It wouldn’t surprise me 
very much to see him eat with his knife.” 

“Horrors!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“Is he handsome, papa?” asked the musical 
voice. 

“Ho, he is not.” 

“How does he look?” 

“Well, he has straight sandy hair and a 
wiry, reddish mustache. He doesn’t dress in 


A COMMON MAN. 


89 


very good taste, and if he wanted to weai. 
gloves I fear it would be necessary for him to 
have them made to order. He has an ugly 
gash across his face, too.” 

“Did he ask about me, papa, or say anything 
about having been here before?” 

“Ho ; I don’t suppose he would enjoy a 
reference to those days, and I am quite sure, 
young lady, that he did not mention your name. 
He has probably forgotten you.” 

The young lady tapped the porch with as 
dainty a slipper as ever adorned an arched 
instep. “I don’t think he has,” she said. 

Miss Tildah Fitzhugh, silent and ghastly- 
looking in the moonlight, laughed cunningly 
in her weird way. “ He is very boorish, 
Martha. He is quite coarse - looking and 
homely, Genevieve, but he dines with us to- 
morrow. Tell me, Hoel, do you think you 
can induce him to buy your old orchard?”' 


90 


A COMMON MAN. 


chapter vii. 

AN EARLY CALL. 

When Mr. John Greystone started out at two 
o’clock the next day for the Pitzhugh’s, the in- 
dulgent reader, cognizant of all the expecta- 
tions and hopes that had centered about that 
particular visit in the numerous day - dreams 
of the young man, may reasonably conjecture 
that he had forgotten that the dinner for which 
he had been invited had been set for five o’clock. 
But the members of that punctilious household, 
being all unaware of the state of their guest’s 
mind — past and present — can scarcely be con- 
demned even by the stanchest friends of my 
hero (if it be that he has won any) for a slight 
exhibition of annoj^ance at the earliness of his 
arrival. He had seen fit to be driven to the 
house in the most stylish turnout that could 
be procured for money at the livery stable, 
and the attention of Miss Genevieve in her 
room upstairs was attracted by the crunching 
sound of the wheels of the vehicle on the drive- 
way. We will not dwell at length on the emo- 


A COMMON MAN. 


91 


tions of the affluent young man who ascended 
firmly and confidently the steps where a ragged 
and barefooted stranger had partaken of a has- 
tily prepared breakfast thirteen years before. 
Suffice it to say that ere he rang the bell he 
turned to look again upon the lawn and the 
gravel walk (not so well kept now) over which 
the outcast had dragged a lame foot and a weary 
body. 

Miss Genevieve, who had glanced through 
the closed blind at the man below her, divined 
at once — from the hired vehicle and from the 
resemblance of its occupant to the description 
given by her father the evening before — that 
it was John Greystone; and that imperious 
young beauty, well aware of the earliness of 
the hour, formed her own opinion as to their 
visitor’s ignorance in the -ways of polite society. 
Besides, he was not handsome, one hasty glance 
assured her of that, not even as prepossessing 
in appearance as the image of the barefooted 
boy that had at times flitted through her 
memory. When Uncle Zekiel, with a low 
bow, opened the door, Mr. Greystone asked 
for Judge Fitzhugh, who, at that particular 


92 


A COMMON MAN. 


instant, was rhetorically demonsTrating the 
“iniquity of reconstruction, sir,” in the office 
of his friend and comrade in arms, General 
Kenwood. 

Having, therefore, been informed of the 
absence of the eloquent master of the house, 
Mr. Greystone, stating that he had an engage- 
ment to dine with him, and would wait until 
his arrival, was ushered into the library by 
Zekiel, after which the latter sought his mis- 
tress to inform her of “de gemman’s pref’ence 
to wait for de Massa,” whose hasty return, it 
is needless to say, Mrs. Fitzhugh sincerely 
desired. For the Judge, in a late council held 
the preceding night, had not failed to imbue 
her with the importance of engendering a 
friendly feeling between themselves and the 
man whose ample resources could alone loosen 
the grip of the odious Hyson. Indeed, the lady 
had at first thought of going downstairs and 
herself receiving the early guest, but in the 
hope that her husband would momentarily 
return (she had already sent a juvenile darky 
for him), and ignorant of the manner in which 
the plebeian animal in the library might have 


A COMMON MAN. 


93 


welcomed such a courtesy, she contented her- 
self by ordering the dinner to be prepared as 
quickly as possible, an(^ impatientlj^ awaited 
her husband’s arrival. Fortunately, it was 
-not long delayed, and a half hour had not 
elapsed ere the host, with urbane smile and 
extended hand, entered the room. “I am very 
glad that you came early,” he said; “and I 
owe you an apology for not being at home. 
Business of an important nature, my dear sir” 
(the manner of the speaker could not have 
conveyed more importance had the business 
involved the actual release for all time of his 
own unfathomed coal-mines), “ made my ab- 
sence unavoidable. If it is perfectly agreeable 
to you, we will stroll over to the orchard and 
take a look at the mines. The ladies will be 
ready when we return, and will be delighted to 
see you.” A shade of disappointment flitted 
across the face of the visitor, who, after coming 
three thousand miles to look upon the princess 
of the fairyland of youth, was, on his arrival 
at her abode, politely forced from the realm of 
enchantment and transported back to the reali- 
ties of life in as short a time as the delib- 


94 


A COMMON MAN. 


erate tones of the practical parent would 
allow. 

So the two men traversed the distance be- 
tween the house and the old orchard that the 
Judge (ever a flowery rhetorician) was pleased 
to call his mines. Southward of the timber- 
land the ground rose abruptly, and several 
irregular and shallow excavations had been 
made in the side of the hill. Judge Fitzhugh 
enthusiastically exhibited choice specimens in 
the adjacent dumps, and expatiated at length 
upon the testimony of the experts who had 
unhesitatingly made affidavit, sir, that half the 
plantation was coal land. But John Greystone 
knew as little of coal-mining as he did of as- 
tronomy, geometry, social etiquette or any other 
abstruse science of which he knew nothing at 
all, and I have not a doubt that if the dumps 
had contained gold-bearing quartz, instead of 
coal, he would have risked all chance of owner- 
ship of such a mythical mine for a speedy trans- 
portation to the castle and a half hour’s in- 
terview alone with its enchantress. Judge 
Fitzhugh did not fail to notice the apparent 
preoccupation of his guest’s mind, and, ascrib- 


A COMMON MAN. 


95 


ing it to his own hastiness in broaching busi- 
ness matters, dropped the subject, and shortly 
proposed a return to the house. 

Whatever crude ideas the young millionaire 
had entertained of the result of that first meet- 
ing; whatever visions of a passionate declara- 
tion of the love that had grown and strength- 
ened with every year, thriving on absence and 
obstacles till its tendrils had intertwined them- 
selves with every fiber of his being; whatever 
intoxicating fancy of pleased surprise and 
returned affection, as the reward of his long 
devotion, had been cherished iritis heart, were 
doomed to speedy ^'cfisappointment. Mrs. and 
Miss Fitzhugh rose as he entered the^ parlor and 
were formally introduced by Ifiis host. The 
elder lady, after a hesitation so brief that it 
passed unnoticed, extended her hand, and Gene- 
vieve offered the same courtesy to their guest. 
During the moment that he held Genevieve’s 
hand John Greystone felt his own tremble under 
the tension of his emotion, and she, meeting 
the glance of those gray eyes that sought and 
held her own, knew as well as woman ever 
knew that the man loved her. What need of 


96 


A COMMON MAN. 


an awkward interview, of a torrent or words, 
of a declaration of passion, for that well-bred 
beauty? She would have known that light in- 
tuitively, even if she had not seen it in other 
eyes, and she had, often enough. There was 
another occupant of the room — ‘‘Mr. Sedgwick, 
allow me to introduce Mr. Greystone.” 

Arthur Sedgwick was a handsome man of 
thirty years or thereabout. He had light blue 
eyes, and a soft mustache shaded his lips, which 
parted continually in a smile that disclosed his 
glistening, pointed teeth. He was a man of 
independent biit not large^ means, and as popu- 
lar with the fair sex as hd^Avas unpopular with 
his own. ^ ■ 

The two mei^^hook hands, and Mr. Sedgwick 
expressed his delight at the acquaintance. 

Althougli a frequent and welcome visitor at 
the house, he would not have been pressed to 
remain to dinner if he had declined the invita- 
tion necessarily extended to him. Though there 
was no better conversationalist of his years, 
and no man better posted on politics. Judge 
Fitzhugh would far rather have bowed him out 
at the front door than into the dining-room. 


A COMMON MAN. 07 

Though no member of the sterner sex could 
gossip more delightfully, Mrs. Fitzhugh would 
have bid him good-evening with pleasure. 
And even Miss Genevieve, whose music he 
had turned, whose escort he had been, whose 
whims he had humored a hundred times, whose 
devoted slave he had repeatedly declared him- 
self, was wellnigh tempted imperiously (though 
covertly) to demand his instant departure. The 
truth was that the Fitzhughs, not knowing just 
how one of their guests would deport himself 
at the table, preferred to acquire that knowledge 
in the absence of the other. You may smile at 
such undue trepidation when the subject in 
hand was a millionaire, but you forget that 
Judge Fitzhugh had ridden the hobby of blood 
for sixty years; that his lady had stickled for 
refinement from the time she left off pinaJores, 
and that the young beauty, who was the daugh- 
ter of both, was as haughty as any heiress in 
the land. Well and good if the rich Northerner 
were taken up by the Ken woods, the Mortimers, 
the Galbraiths, the Fenwicks and the scions of 
Southern aristocracy generally. But what if 
he were not? What if he should prove unpre- 


98 


A COMMON MAN. 


sentable in the presence of the most inveterate 
gossip of his sex? It was too harrowing for 
thought. Noblesse oblige! and the upholder 
of family, the high priest of blood, the idolater 
of caste, was fain to accept the inevitable. 

I have no doubt that if Mrs. Fitzhugh had 
left the arrangement of seats at the table to 
John Greystone, he would have occupied Mr. 
Bedgwick’s place between that lady and her 
daughter. His seat was between the hostess 
and Aunt Tildah, who made her appearance, 
and to whom he was introduced, as they en- 
tered the dining-room. Much to Mrs. Fitz- 
hugh ’s gratification, the gentleman at her left 
did not put his knife into his mouth or other- 
wise make himself disagreeably conspicuous. 
It is true that he used his knife with the fish, 
allowed the handle of that utensil and his fork 
to rest on the table, instead of on his plate, and 
carried his elbows at a horizontal position dur- 
ing the progress of the meal. 

The affable gentleman at the foot of the table 
also noticed that the mastication of his food was 
audible at times, but tliese were all minor de- 
tails that might have passed unnoticed in a less 


A COMMON MAN. 


99 


punctilious household, and would have been, the 
world over, when the offender was a millionaire. 
The conversation was confined principally to 
topics of general interest, and latterly to the 
subject of gold-mining, one with which John 
Greystone was t thoroughly familiar, and in 
which the two young gentlemen at the right 
and left of the Judge were deeply interested. 
In their young eyes Mr. Greystone was a hero 
indeed, and either one of them would have 
given all the Fitzhugh blood in his veins to 
have taken that overland trip to California, 
to have shot bears and fought Indians, and to 
have hobnobbed with real live scouts. 

And so the dinner passed off pleasantly 
enough, more pleasantly to some of those pres- 
ent than they had dared to anticipate. After 
its conclusion they all sought the veranda, 
where the Judge offered his guests cigars. 
“ The ladies don’t object, you know,” he 
said, as he offered his case to Mr. Greystone. 

“No, I thank you, I’ll smoke one of these,” 
said that gentleman, taking one of the famous 
twenty-five centers from his pocket. “Judge, 
let me insist on your smoking one of mine. 


100 


A COMMON MAN. 


There aren’t any cigars like them in Floris- 
sant, I know.” And the host was obliged to 
accept the inevitable. Naturally thinking that 
the cigars would in turn be pressed upon his 
other guest, he slipped his own case back into 
his pocket, but John Greystone had apparently 
exhausted his generosity that day, and had 
lighted his own cigar when J udge Fitzhugh no- 
ticed that Sedgwick was unprovided and hasti- 
ly offered his case with an apology. Whether 
or not Mr. Sedgwick had noticed the slight 
could never have been guessed from his coun- 
tenance, as blandly smiling as ever. 

But where were the rosy-hued visions of 
that first meeting that had been cherished 
and dreamed of on the far - away banks of 
the Kabawara? Where are they, John Grey- 
stone? She is there before you, as beautiful as 
ever fancy painted her, and you are strongs 
enough to throw that smiling Sedgwick over 
the railing You have more money than her 
father ever had in the old days, too. Then, 
why do you sit chafing there between those 
two prosy old people, waiting for Sedgwick 
to go until that gentleman reminds Miss Gene- 


A COMMON MAN. 


101 


vieve of their engagement to ride, and she 
excuses herself to don her habit? 

She returned presently, looking handsomer 
than ever in the close - fitting riding - habit 
that displayed her perfect figure to such ad- 
vantage, but he never noticed that. Sedgwick 
had, and half the beaux in the county had ; so 
had Mrs. Fitzhugh, and Miss Genevieve herself 
had a full-length mirror in her room and knew 

well enough that she had a good figure. But 
% 

in the eyes of John Greystone she would have 
been as fair in rags as in her dainty habit, and 
the love that followed her that summer evening 
as she rode gayly off with that erect, smiling 
man was as untarnished as the love that had 
led him across the plains to the gold-fields and 
three thousand miles back again to Floris- 
sant. 

After all it was small wonder that he was 
dissatisfied, and he could not have concealed 
it if he had tried. I do not know what vague 
ideas flitted through the mind of Mrs. Fitzhugh 
—women guess a man’s secret when the best 
friends of his own sex wouldn’t think of it; but 
after he had gone. Judge Fitzhugh remarked 


102 


A COMMON MAN. 


to his wife that he feared their guest had not 
enjoyed the evening. 

“Probably he felt a little strange/^ said Mrs. 
Fitzhugh. 

“That may be it,” assented her husband; 
“ but I thought he was . a little put • out by 
Genevieve’s going.” 

“I don’t see wlij^- he should be,” said the 
mother. 

“Well, neither do I, Martha; but, after all, 
it isn’t as if he had come back to us an utter 
stranger. I think he would have appreciated 
a little more warmth on your part and on 
Genevieve’s.” 

“ He treated Mr. Sedgwick quite rudely about 
the cigars,’* said Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“Yes, he did,” acknowledged the Judge. 
“And I really don’t know whether it was 
through ignorance or intentional. Genevieve 
devoted her entire attention to Sedgwick, and 
the man’s feelings were hurt. I could see it 
plainly enough when she rode away.” The 
Judge spoke petulantly, for the day closed 
unsatisfactorily enough. Turning from his 
wife he saw two very black eyes fixed upon 


A COMMON MAN. 


103 


him, and two thin blue lips asked, tauntingly, 
“Tell me, IToel, do you think you can induce 
him to buy your old orchard?” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A SOCIAL LION. 

Whatever had been the impression made 
on the different members of the Fitzhugh family 
by the third advent of John Greystone in that 
eminently refined household, that event was the 
signal for a general opening of doors throughout 
Florissant to the wealthy Northern stranger. 
Not that they would have remained closed 
eventually under any circumstances, for Gold 
is the most ingenious of locksmiths. In fine, 
does he not accomplish far more in that line 
than his much vaunted rival, Love? If there 
had been any wavering in the minds of the 
most unreconstructed rebels, if there had been 
any holding back on the part of skeptics or 
purblind idolaters of blood, there was only 
universal hospitality after the Fitzhughs had 


104 


A COMMON MAN. 


taken the initiative. The numerous ex-mili- 
tary contingent “were most happy, sir, to be 
introduced to Mr. Greystone, sir.” And the 
sincerity of their declarations was proven by 
the freedom with which they drank his wine 
and smoked his twenty-five cent cigars. Fort- 
unately for the posterity of Southern families, 
the ex-military contingent (which comprised 
four-fifths of the adult male population) was 
possessed of mothers, wives, sisters and daugh- 
ters, like any other mortals, and so it came to 
pass that John Greystone, being young and a 
bachelor and — but why should the motives of 
those gentle female relatives be impugned? 
Enough that Southern hospitality asserted it- 
self in no uncertain terms, and he was invited 
everywhere. His manners were undeniably 
crude, and refinement did not scruple to gossip 
about him scandalously once his back was 
turned, but the welcome was none the less 
warm for that. His cigars were certainly 
famous, and there were any number of mort- 
gaged acres for sale in Christian County; his 
vehicles were the very latest style, and there 
were any number of -girls (not for sale, cer- 


A COMMON MAN. 


105 


tainly) who liked very well to ride in them 
behind his swift trotters. And so the summer 
days passed into weeks, and John Greystone, 
a pleasant fellow withal — though a trifle given 
to boasting on the one subject of money — found 
himself quite a social lion. He might have 
married into any one of a score of first fami- 
lies for the asking, and if he hadn’t been a 
very resolute lion indeed, pretty Mateel Poin- 
dexter would have clipped his claws to a cer- 
tainty. 

But our lion did not ask Mateel, and he did 
not ask a score of others, and, strangest of all, 
he did not ask Genevieve Pitzhugh. Just 
why, the lion couldn’t have told you. She had 
treated him with marked friendliness ever since 
that first evening, and she went horseback rid- 
ing with him as often as with all other admirers 
combined ; she even sang for him the most 
beautiful music he had ever heard ; but, for all 
that, he had never told her that he loved her— 
that is, in reality, for in fancy he had avowed 
his passion a thousand times. But so surely as 
he approached the subject, just so surely the 
skillful beauty changed it, and the man who 


106 


A COMMON MAN. 


had come three thousand miles to tell her that 
he loved her passed a month in the same town 
without having accomplished that laudable ob- 
ject. Smile, if you will, but what plain man, 
bred in the wilderness beyond the ken of 
women, could have asked admittance to the 
temple of love when a woman inheriting every 
art of coquetry stood, at the threshold, ever 
ready to turn him thence — now with the imperi- 
ous introduction of an entirely foreign subject, 
demanding instant recognition, and discussion; 
again with a light laugh, suggestive of ridicule, 
from which the veriest Romeo would have fled; 
and at times, if the devotee pressed too closely, 
any member of the fair enslaver’s sex who was 
within hearing would be suddenly summoned 
to the scene, only to be asked, demurely, if it 
was true that she was going to spend the winter 
in Louisville, or, perhaps, as demurely incited 
to hear a charming story that Mr. Greystone 
was on the point of telling. Miles from homej 
in the absence of all auxiliaries, when the lion 
had drawn too near a dangerous subject. Miss 
Fitzhugh’s horse had been seized with a sudden 
and unaccountable frenzy to wander into adja- 


A COMMON MAN. 


107 


cent corn paths, jump fences, or race along the 
road, with the bit between his teeth, as the fair 
coquette— who knew very well that the bit must 
necessarily have been between those objects — 
seriously informed her escort, after one partic- 
ularly narrow escape. Summer was the gay 
season then, as now, in Florissant, and Mr. 
Greystone found himself a favorite guest at 
numerous lemonade teas, lawn parties and pic- 
nics, where he was flattered and made much of 
by numerous young ladies who had conceived 
sudden admiration for sandy red mustaches and 
scarred faces, of which combined adornments 
John Greystone was the sole possessor. 

If dancing was indulged in, as it frequently 
was, there were always certain young ladies 
who did not care for dancing, which was fort- 
unate for the lion, who was not versed in that 
fine art. 

It was on one of these festive occasions that 
he met pretty little Lucy Kent, whose father 
and elder brother had been killed at Shiloh, and 
whose means were as slender as her own little 
waist. Yet, though she invariably wore the 
same cheap muslin dress at all social events, 


108 


A COMMON MAN. 


she did not set her cap at the lion and did not 
even flatter him as they promenaded together 
under the trees. 

Finally they walked toward the house and 
seated themselves on the portico, where they 
had a splendid view of the dancers through the 
broad open windows. It was early, and the 
first waltz was then in progress. Presently 
young Alston Kenwood {on dit that he is 
partial to the pretty wearer of the muslin) pre- 
sents himself and asks for the next dance. 

“Thank you, but it is engaged,’’ says Miss 
Lucy; and Mr. Kenwood, stroking that bud- 
ding down on his upper lip, wanders off dis- 
consolately and shortly consoles himself with 
Miss Madge Rowland, who generously promises 
him the boon that Miss Kent has refused. The 
next dance, which is a waltz, commences, but 
no partner presents himself for the fair hand of 
Miss Lucy. Couple after couple pass by the 
window and whirl on. Master Alston, who 
is a vigorous dancer, dashes by and casts a 
reproachful glance at the young lady on the 
veranda, a glance of which that kittenish young 
lady on his arm is happily unconscious. Miss 


A COMMON MAN. 


109 


Lucy taps her dainty slipper impatiently, then 
starts unconsciously as Genevieve Fitzhugh, 
with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, sweeps 
by the window in the arms of Arthur Sedgwick. 

“They make a handsome couple, don’t they?” 
remarks Mrs. Kenwood, who is one of the chap- 
erones of the occasion, and who approaches 
the couple on the portico as Sedgwick and Gene- 
vieve appear at the window. 

“Yes; I think Mr. Sedgwick is awfully good- 
looking,” sighs Miss Lucy. 

“Miss Genevieve is beautiful,” says Mr. 
Greystone, in his turn. 

“He is awfully popular with the girls,” says 
Miss Lucy, with a furtive glance through the 
window. 

“You had better take care, Lucy; he is a 
dreadful flirt,” remarks the handsome matron, 
M^ho had jilted a half dozen lovers before Lucy 
was born, and who had spent two gay seasons 
in Washington when her late father was in the 
United States Senate. 

“Is it his flirting that makes him so popular 
with the ladies?” asks John Greystone, almost 
sneeringly. 


110 


A COMMON MAN. 


“It may be,” replies the matron. “I never 
knew a male flirt who wasn’t popular with my 
sex, and generally unpopular with your own, 
Mr. Greystone. There are always young girls 
foolish enough to believe everything they say,” 
with a solicitous glance at Lucy, whose mother 
had been a schoolmate of her own years before. 

“Why do you mothers allow it?” asks Grey- 
stone, gravely. “Why do you invite them to 
your houses, and let them ride and drive and 
dance with your daughters?” 

“Oh, we can’t very well help it. Besides, 
any girl who is foolish enough to have her head 
turned by a flirt” (another solicitous glance at 
Lucy) “deserves it. But your own sex is no 
better, sir. Did you ever see a man who ad- 
mired a girl because she was good alone? No, 
sir; the most popular girls are the ones who 
have the prettiest faces, dance the best, flatter 
the most and flirt the hardest.” 

“Just look at Genevieve Fitzhugh,” inter- 
rupted Lucy, who had just caught another 
fleeting glimpse of that young lady and her 
partner; “she flirts with every man she sees 
and laughs at them behind their backs, and 


A COMMON MAN. 


Ill 


slie has more beaux than any other girl in 
Florissant,” 

“And Arthur Sedgwick seems to be the 
favorite,” says Mrs. Kenwood. “I wonder if 
they will make a match of it?” 

“Ko. He is not the least bit in love with 
her,” says Miss Lucy, as authoritatively as 
though she was the keeper of Arthur Sedg- 
wick’s numerous secrets. “No, there is noth- 
ing in such a rumor.” 

“I should think not,” . growls Greystoue. 
“As if Genevieve Fitzhugh would think of 
marrying a fellow of that stripe!” 

“Well, well ! there is no telling,” laughs 
Mrs. Kenwood, and takes her departure as the 
music stops. 

Again does Master Alston Kenwood present 
himself before Miss Lucy with an appeal for 
the pleasure of the next dance, and again that 
artless young lady informs him that it is en- 
gaged ; so that Master Alston, who knows very 
well that she didn’t dance either the polka or 
the waltz, concludes that the engagement is a 
myth, and that she is smitten with that com- 
mon fellow Grey stone, for whom he conceives 


112 


A COMMON MAN. 


a cordial dislike and whom he intends to quarrel 
with at the earliest opportunity — for the pride 
of the Kenwoods is not yet twenty. 

Presently the first notes of the quadrille are 
struck by the hostess herself from the keys of 
a piano, and the dancers hurry to their places. 
Among the first are Genevieve and Sedgwick, 
who station themselves right opposite the win- 
dow. “Let us go away,” says Lucy, petu- 
lantly. And her moody escort, nothing loath, 
stalks away with her under the trees, while a 
young gentleman, who has been told that she 
was engaged for that dance, scowls fiercely after 
them and wonders who will act as the villain’s 
second in the event of a “ meeting” between 
them. 

“ Do you think that a man tires of a woman 
when he finds out that she really loves him?” 
asks Lucy. 

“I don’t know; I shouldn’t think so,” replies 
her escort, wondering if it would be possible 
for him to love a certain enchantress any less 
if he should become aware that his passion for 
her was returned. 

And when Mr. Arthur Sedgwick approaches 


A COMMON MAN. 


113 


with the eternal smile on his face and the sin- 
cere announcement that he had been looking all 
over for her and hadn’t enjoyed himself at all, 
because she failed to keep the engagement for 
that dance, pretty Lucy’s face lights up imme- 
diately, and her upbraiding is confined to the 
faltering announcement that she had said she 
would wait on the veranda. Of course Mr. 
Sedgwick had misunderstood her, and was 
awfully sorry, and hoped she hadn’t been 
bored to death by that miner fellow. Of 
course she forgave him — she had done that 
the instant he approached, and now that the 
beauty had taken her departure, she had him 
pretty much to herself, and danced the last 
waltz in his arms about the time that the 
miner finished his last cigar at the hotel. As 
for that gentleman, he passed a sleepless night, . 
and resolved more firmly than ever before to 
propose to Genevieve Fitzhugh on the morrow, 
even though he had to do it before all Floris- 
sant. And at the same hour in Genevieve’s 
own’ room an interview was taking place that 
made the proposal very simple and easy, as the 
reader will learn in the next chapter. 


114 


A COMMON MAN. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A mother’s appeal. 

“Was Mr. Grey stone -invited to the party 
this evening, Martha?” asked Judge Fitzhugh 
shortly after the departure of his daughter for 
the social event which has just been recorded. 

“Yes; I don’t know any place where he is 
not invited,” Mrs. Fitzhugh replied, in a 
slightly injured tone. 

“ How is it that he did not take Genevieve, 
then,” inquired the Judge. 

“How is it? Why, Mr. Poindexter asked 
her first, and she accepted his inivtation.” 

“ Ah !” assented the Judge. 

“ I can’t say that I am sorry Mr. Greystone 
^was disappointed,” resumed the lady. “Half 
of the girls in town have tried to capture him, 
and it is just as well for him to know that 
Genevieve Fitzhugh is not one of them. I do 
believe he thinks he is too good for most of the 
girls.” 

“ Do you think he— he cares anything about 
Genevieve?” asked the Judge. 


A COMMON MAN. 


115 


know it,” replied the lady, decidedly. 
“He has been trying to propose to her ever 
since he has been here.” 

“Trying to?” echoed her husband, interroga- 
tively. 

“ Yes, trying to. He is naturally awkward, 
and Genevieve has not given him an opportu- 
nity. I’m perfectly sure that when she called 
me out here yesterday to fix a rose in her hair, 
John Greystone was on the point of a proposal. 
He looked it, if ever a man did.” 

Judge Fitzhugh rose from his chair and 
began pacing nervously up and down the ver- 
anda, followed by his wife’s furtive glances. 

“What is the matter, Noel?” she asked, at 
last. 

- “Oh, nothing! nothing!” was all the reply 
vouchsafed, yet the frown deepened on his 
brow. 

“There is something the matter, Noel; I 
know there is,” persisted Mrs. Fitzhugh. 
“There hasn’t been any more trouble about 
the mortgage, has there?” 

Her husband started nervously. “About 
the mortgage? Certainly not,’^ he said “There 


116 


A COMMON MAN. 


is trouble enough in the fact of its existence. 
Trouble enough to turn us out on the road yon- 
der in another six weeks.’’ 

“Wouldn’t the sale give us something of a 
balance over the mortgage?” 

“No. Who is there to bid on the place? 
Ryson will bid it in himself for the principal 
and interest.” 

“And the coal land?” suggested the lady. 

“He will get the full benefit of that. I can’t 
do anything with it now. I had hoped to get 
an offer from Grey stone, but he has lost interest 
in it, somehow. I think Genevieve’s treatment 
has had its effect on him.” 

“Does he know how much you need the 
money?” 

“No, he does not,” said Judge Fitzhugh. 
“He would not be any more likely to buy it if 
he did know, and if he should suddenly take a 
notion to it, the knowledge that I am a beggar 
would certainly not improve his offer.” 

“Don’t you think it would have been better 
to have told him just how you were situated 
and to have relied on his generosity?” 

“Oh, yes, with Genevieve treating him like 


A COMMON MAN. 


'117 


a schoolboy,” said Judge Fitzhugh, sarcasti- 
cally. “It is probable that he would have 
been generous under the circumstances. Very 
probable.” 

A brief silence ensued. Old Don, aged and 
decrepit, dragged himself to his master’s feet 
and looked up into the troubled face with dumb 
sympathy. And sorel}^ troubled in very truth 
was the master, as his eye wandered over the 
Fitzhugh acres — so broad, so fertile, so heavily 
burdened. Suddenly he turned and faced his 
wife. “I don’t think, Martha, that you under- 
stand how deeply I am involved,” he said. 
“God knows I haven’t worried you about it 
unnecessarily; but now I don’t know where to 
turn; I am worse than beggared.” 

Mrs. Fitzhugh left her chair and went up to 
her husband where he was leaning dejectedly 
against the vine-clad railing. “Not worse than 
beggared, Noel,” she said. “Your honor is 
unstained, you will owe no man a dollar, and 
you still have your practice. We can’t help 
making a living, after all.” 

“There is something else besides the mort- 
gage,” said the Judge, lowering his voice. “I 


118 


A COMMON MAN. 


cannot tell you the particulars, but there are 
other obligations that I must meet, obligations 
in which my honor is involved. If this house 
is ever put up for sale I am a ruined man. I 
couldn’t stand the disgrace, Martha, I couldn’t 
stand it.” And the husky tones ended in a 
dry sob. 

Not even her woman’s curiosity coveted the 
“particulars” of those “other obligations.” 
“Business” had always been a mystery to her, 
but that it could in any way connect disgrace 
with the name of Fitzhugh was indeed beyond 
her comprehension. She drew closer to the 
despondent man, and laid one hand tenderly on 
his arm. “Don’t give up, Noel,” she said. 
“Isn’t there anything left untried?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “There is only one 
thing that can save us — Genevieve’s marriage 
to Greystone.” 

“Noel!” exclaimed his wife, shrinking^ from 
his side. 

“That’s right; blame me. I expected it,” 
he replied, bitterly. “What did you ask me for, 
if you didn’t want to know? Why shouldn’t 
the girl marry Greystone? He won’t help me 


A COMMON MAN. 


119 


without her, and I n^ust have money.. He loves 
her and will make her a good husband, and it 
will save the family from disgrace. I don’t 
think only of myself. There are the boys and 
the Fitzhugh name. She must marry him.” 

“Suppose, Noel, that she refuses?” 

“She will not refuse. She cannot refuse. 
Tell her everything. , You can influence her, 
Martha; I can’t go to her. You will tell her 
to-night, won’t you?” 

“Yes, to-night,” answered his wife. And 
then there was silence between them. 

“The marriage won’t be a bad thing for 
Genevieve, Martha,” said the Judge at last. 
“The power of money is greater than it was, 
and he is a millionaire. She will have every- 
thing a woman could wish for, and it will be 
the making of our boys. Our interests will be 
his, and you may be sure a practical man like 
Greystone won’t neglect the coal-mines. We 
won’t have to sacrifice what’s left of the home, 
and the Fitzhughs can hold their heads as high 
as they ever did.” The animation of other 
- days returned to the speaker, but only momen- 
tarily, for in the next instant he asked, anx- 


120 


A COMMON MAN. 


iously, “You don’t think, Martha, that Gene- 
vieve will refuse when she understands?” 

“No, she will not refuse. She will be en- 
gaged to marry John Greystone before the end 
of this week,” answered Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

Genevieve had just thrown aside her wrap 
and was standing before her mirror, when there 
was a light knock on her door. 

“May I come in, dear?” asked Mrs. Fitz- 
hugh. 

“Yes, mamma,” replied Genevieve, a little 
surprised at the late '/isit. 

“Have you had a pleasant time?” asked the 
mother, sitting down on the side of the bed. 

“Oh, yes,” replied the young lady, disposing 
her graceful form among the cushions of an 
easy-chair. “I had to refuse a dozen invita- 
tions to dance, as usual.” 

“Who were there? Any married ladies?” 
asked Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“About the same people. There were not 
many chaperones— Mrs. Poindexter and Mrs. 
Dabney and Mrs. Preston. Mrs. Kenwood was 
there, too, and wore that lovely pearl necklace. 


A COMMON MAN. 


121 


I don’t think any of the young people in town 
were left out in the invitations — certainly none 
of the girls were. Lucy Kent was as devoted 
as usual to Arthur Sedgwick, who, of course, 
was devoted to me. He’s awfully handsome 
and does dance divinely, but it is a shame the 
way he is flirting with that little goose. I 
just wish I could be in her place for twenty- 
four hours, and I’d lead him a dance that he 
wouldn’t forget. Mr. Millionaire, who doesn’t 
dance, looked quite gloomy, and was pleased to 
take umbrage at Arthur’s attentions to Miss 
Fitzhugh.” 

“How do you know?” asked the older lady. 

“Well, I flatter myself that he did. He spent 
an hour with Lucy on the veranda.^ Wouldn’t 
it be a splendid thing, mamma, if he should 
fall ‘in love with her — only I know he won’t, 
and, even if he did, he wouldn’t have the least 
chance as long as Arthur Sedgwick chose to 
flirt with her.” 

Suddenly Genevieve noticed the unwonted 
grave expression on her mother’s face, and 
paused in her recital of those countless trifles 
that excite the feminine interest in a party. 


122 A COMMON MAN. 

“You’re not a bit interested in what I am 
saying, mamma,” she pouted, if the faintest 
compression of rosy lips can be so called. 

“Yes, dear, I am, but—” Mrs. Fitzhugh 
hesitated. 

“But what, mamma?” asked Genevieve. 

“I had come in to-night to talk with you 
about a very serious matter, Genevieve. Your 
father is dreadfully worried about his business 
affairs, which are in a deplorable condition.” 

“ I know, mamma, but we can’t do anything. 
Poor papa! I think he worries too much. It’s 
ail on account of that horrid mortgage. Will 
he have to give up the house?” 

“ Yes, he says that he will, and I don’t think 
}^u can understand how attached he is to it. 
Genevieve, tell me whether you care anything 
about Arthur Sedgwick?” 

“ As if that had anything to do with the 
mortgage ! ” exclaimed Genevieve, astonished 
at the suddenness of the question. 

“But do you?” her mother persisted, with 
strange seriousness. 

“No, I do not,” replied the beauty, reflec- 
tively. “I like him as well as any man I 


A COMMON MAN. 


123 


know, possibly a little better. He’s awfully 
handsome, and dances well, and always does 
the right thing in the right place. I think he 
is the most refined man I know — and I am 
almost as bad as papa is about refinement, you 
know. But I wouldn’t marry him. I don’t 
care for him in that way.” 

‘•Thank God that you don’t!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Fitzhugh, so earnestly that her daughter 
could only cry, “Why, mamma, what do you 
mean?” 

“ I don’t know how to tell you, dear, but 1 
must some way. Your father and I want you 
to marry some one else. Wait till I finish, 
dear. He is more deeply involved than I had 
thought, so deeply that he says the sale of the 
house is as nothing compared to the other 
troubles. He has contracted obligations of 
honor, and, if they are not ""paid, he will be 
disgraced. He says that he could never hold 
his head up again, and I know that it would 
kill him. There is only one man who has 
the pow’er to help him, and that is John 
Grey stone. He wants — we both want you 
to marry him, Genevieve.” 


124 


A COMMON MAN. 


The young girl stood up, erect, defiant, beau- 
tiful, and the mother’s head drooped beneath 
her glance. ‘‘I don’t understand you, mamma. 
I don’t want to marry John Greystone. He is 
too common — he is too far beneath me. How 
could papa be disgraced by being poor? Oh, 
mamma, now you’re crying. What have I 
said to hurt you?” And she threw her arms 
about the sobbing woman. “ Tell me all about 
it so that I can understand. I will do any- 
thing for your sake and for papa’s,” she said, 
impulsively. 

“There is nothing more to tell. I don’t 
understand it myself. But it will disgrace 
your father, it will disgrace our boys, it will 
disgrace us all, if you don’t marry Mr. Grey- 
stone. Your father told me to tell you that 
he would come to you on his knees, if you 
asked it. Oh, Genevieve, don’t be hard on 
him ; he is so broken — he has suffered so 
much. Don’t humiliate him by forcing him 
to beg you or to tell you the particulars that 
he has even kept from me. Think of that 
gray head, my daughter; think of your 
brothers and their future; think of poor Til- 


A COMMON MAN. 


125 


dah thrown on the world. You don’t love 
any other man or I would not ask the sacri- 
fice. Mr. Greystone loves you and will make 
you happy. He will give you everything in 
the v/orld, and you will learn to love him 
in time. We are both women, my child, and 
we are Fitzhughs. We cannot weigh the cost 
of sacrifice when duty calls. The honor of the 
family — your father’s life depends on you. Do 
you think I would ask you to marry him if it 
were not your duty? Tell me that you will, 
Genevieve. Let. me bring that answer to your 
father, my child.” 

Genevieve did not reply at once to her 
mother’s appeal. She left her side and 
walked rapidly about the room, like a beau- 
tiful caged animal that contemplates escape. 
She stopped before a portrait of one whom as 
a little child she had worshiped more than 
father or mother, and looked upon it long and 
earnestly, then turned suddenly toward Mrs. 
Fitzhugh, with trembling lips and moist eyes: 

“Mamma, do you think that brother Guy 
would have wished it? I told him once, that 
time before he went away, that if he never 


126 


A COMMON MAN. 


came back, and that if I was ever sorely 
troubled, if I wavered between right and 
wrong, I would do what I thought he would 
have wished. Do you think he would wish it, 
mamma?” 

‘‘Yes, my child, yes,” said the stricken 
mother, between bitter sobs. 

“Then I will do it,” said Genevieve, firmly. 
“Tell papa that I have promised you. And 
now, mamma, good-night. Please go away. 
I want to be alone.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE CLOCK TALKS AGAIN. 

The next afternoon was spent very pleasantly 
by John Greystone at the Fitzhugh’s — very 
pleasantly, even though he did not see Gene- 
vieve, that young lady, as he was informed by 
liis hostess, having gone to spend two or three 
days with Mrs. Kenwood. 

Genevieve had announced her intention early 
that morning — had insisted, nervously, that 
she must go. It would be only for a few days, 


A COMMON MAN. 


- 127 


she said, and there would be time enough after- 
ward for — she did not say what, but the mother, 
who had heard far into the sleepless night and 
into the gray dawn the sound of restless foot- 
steps in her daughter’s room; who had asked 
her own heart again and again in the silence of 
the night what Guy would have wished— the 
mother understood her daughter’s longing to 
be alone in those first hours, to reconcile herself 
to the step that she had taken, away from those 
who had demanded the sacrifice, away for the 
present, at least, from the man whom she was 
to marry. So Mrs. Fitzhugh had kissed her 
good-by with assumed cheerfulness, and, after 
she had gone, made light of her short absence 
to Judge Fitzhugh, who had missed her at 
breakfast and was fretted at her departure. 
How could he understand the fullness of the 
sacrifice that she had made? Why should he? 
His wife, who had brought him Genevieve’s 
promise, spared him the knowledge of nearly 
all that had passed between them, and readily 
coincided with the worldly views that he ex- 
pressed regarding Genevieve’s happiness in the 
wealthy match that they had arranged. 


128 


A COMMON MAN. 


And yet it is one of the pleasantest afternoons 
that John Greystone has ever passed beneath 
that roof. How could it be otherwise when 
Mrs. Fitzhugh, always so uncomfortably re- 
served, makes him take the chair nearest her 
own, so that she can tell him how she herself 
had insisted on Genevieve’s visit to Mrs. Ken- 
wood because the poor child had been less well 
than usual lately, and she thought the change 
would benefit her; and then (in a lower voice) 
how Genevieve had said that all the pleasure 
of the visit would not compensate her for the 
loss of her expected ride with Mr. Greystone. 
“If you knew how seldom Genevieve says any- 
thing of the kind about gentlemen you would 
appreciate the compliment,’^ the lady concludes, 
just as if her listener did not already appreciate 
it beyond all tangible valuation. All the tact 
that woman can command is exerted by Mrs. 
Fitzhugh to make amends for the absence of Gen- 
evieve, and the man who has asked so little at 
their hands is quiekly appr ciative, and for the 
first time feels at hom^ among them. Only 
Aunt Tildah’s ejes disturb him, and he can 
almost fancy that he again hears her repeating 


A COMMON MAN. 


129 


mirthlessly, as she had repeated in the long ago, 
“What a joke! what a joke! what a joke!’’ 
But after dinner (Judge 'and Mrs. Fitzhugh 
would not hear of his leaving before) the pale 
face becomes indistinct in the deepening twi- 
light, and to him como gentler thoughts of other 
days when he knew only kindness from every 
member of this household. 

Ever since his return the subject of those 
early days had been tacitly avoided between 
them. The Fitzhughs had felt that it would 
be an embarrassing one for him, and had care* 
fullj' avoided it, and he had not hitherto 
broached it, but on this evening, when in the 
twilight the homestead seemed to breathe a wel- 
come once more, when even his hostess became 
the gentle Mrs. Fitzhugh of old, he gave lan- 
guage to the long unuttered thoughts and spoke 
of those other days. He told them something 
of the crudeness of his ideas at that time, and 
the boys (Ravenel and Leonard Fitzhugh) 
laughed at that portion of the recital wherein 
he confessed his inability to understand why 
the gentlemen of the family never wore their 
hats in the house. They were deeply interested 


130 


A COMMON MAN. 


in his homely description of Egypt and of his 
flight from that dark land. “And do you know 
that the best meal I ever ate in my life, Mrs. 
Fitzhugh, was the one that Gen — ^Miss Gene- 
vieve gave me on these steps. I have never 
been so hungry before or since,” he said; 
“though I have gone short of a feed now and 
then in the diggings.” 

“Whatever made you leave us so suddemy?” 
asked the host. 

“Well, sir, you did yourself.” 

“I?” said the Judge, slightly alarmed. 

“Yes, sir; I will tell you how. You remem- 
ber one night when Major and Mrs. Kenwood 
were here, the night before I went, and you 
told about how two young men had gone from 
these parts out to the coast, and how they had 
made their pile and had come back, and how 
one of them—” He stopped abruptly, but his 
color was unnoticed in the gathering twilight. 
“Well, sir, that settled it. I made up my mind 
. that night that I would start for the gold-fields, 
and I did, long before a soul in the house was 
stirring. I was pretty v/ell played out after the 
first half mile, I can tell you, but I struck a 


A COMMON MAN. 131 

‘mover’s’ wagon then, and just tumbled into 
the straw at the back of it and stayed there till 
night. The old man himself didn’t know I was 
there till pretty near the end of the day, when 
we’d gone over thirty miles.” 

“Well! well!” exclaimed Judge Fitzhugh. 
“That is the reason we couldn’t find him, 
Martha.” 

“Did you hunt for me? Did you want to 
find me again?” asked Greystone, eagerly. 

“Indeed we did. We rode the country over 
for ten miles around here, and I remember Guy 
— 5"0u remember my son, Mr. Greystone — I 
remember Guy telling me that he had ques- 
tioned a mover about you some distance from 
here: I suppose you were sound asleep in that 
very man’s wagon at the time.” 

“I reckon I was,” John assented, and con- 
tinued the recital of his adventures. He told 
them of the long, hard pilgrimage over the 
desert and of his early experiences in San Fran- 
cisco; of his work in the gold-fields, the differ- 
ent classes of men he had been brought in con- 
tact with there, and of the long nights around 
the camp-fire. He told them how the great 


132 


A COMMON MAN. 


craving for gold never left him through all the 
years, and that he was always sure that he 
would strike it. But he did not tell them why 
he first longed for the yellow metal; why all 
labor seemed light in the hope of its possession, 
or the source whence as a boy he had drawn his 
wondrous steadiness of resolve. He did not tell 
them of the constant image of a fair-haired 
child that had been with him always. That 
story was for her to hear — only for her. 

Mr. John Greystone appeared to advantage 
on that pleasant evening. iNot only were the 
boys deeply interested, but even Judge and 
Mrs. Fitzhugh drew their chairs nearer, and 
the former actually allowed one of those famous 
twenty-five-cent cigars to go out. Aunt Tildah 
sat with her face turned from her brother, and 
never uttered a word, and in the moonlight 
John Greystone could see the haunting eyes 
turned upon him almost pityingly. Once, as 
he paused, the younger of the boys asked him, 
with the naivete of ten, if he had ever saved 
any man’s life. 

“Yes, once, Leonard,” he answered, gravely; 
“the life of my best friend, a man to whom I 


A COMMON MAN. 


133 


owe everything ; the truest, bravest man I ever 
knew— Alfred West.” With that dear name 
yet lingering on his lips,, he saw Aunt Tildah 
rise nervously from her chair and fiercely strike 
her brow with clinched hand. Before any one 
could reach her she had fallen heavily to the 
floor in convulsions. 

Long after John Greystone had dropped to 
sleep that night, his waking thoughts of a 
certain stately beauty having passed into 
dreams, wherein a young outcast and a fair- 
haired child roamed over Nodland picking 
golden berries; long after Judge and Mrs. 
Fitzhugh had exhausted the topic of their 
prospective son-in-law, and the lady, yield- 
ing to the superior judgment of her spouse, 
had consented to drive over with him to 
Mrs. Kenwood’s on the morrow and see if 
the bait could not be reconciled to a more 
speedy casting at the gold-fish; long after 
every other occupant of the house was in the 
same kind land where Greystone wandered, 
Tildah Fitzhugh, weak and exhausted, lay 
with sleepless eyes in the dreariest room in 


134 


A COMMON MAN. 


the house. What bitter memories had been 
awakened, what unhealed wounds had been 
torn afresh by the utterance of that name by 
the stranger! What mattered the years that 
had passed to the lonely womans The years 
had been so empty that the betrothal seemed 
but as yesterday, and the impotent sorrow 
was as poignant now as then. The hatred of 
her brother burned as fiercely now as in the 
hour that he told her Alfred "West had gone 
aw’ay. She hated Mrs. Fitzhugh because she 
had known of his going and had not told 
her, and because she was Noel’s wife; she 
hated Genevieve because of her youth and 
beauty; she hated the boys because Noel’s 
blood flowed in their veins. She cjinched 
her thin hands and bit her bruised lip when 
she thought how she hated them ail. She 
had never cared for John Greystone before 
that night — whom had she cared for in all 
those years ? — but now she would have laid 
down her wretched life for him, for Alfred 
West’s best friend, for the man who had 
saved his life. How glad she was that she 
had known it in time. How duped and be- 


A COMMON MAN. 


135 


littled and ruined the proud Fitzhughs would 
be when John Greystone knew all that the 
black clock had told her. And to save him, 
to save him for Alfred West’s sake! “Do it 
— do it — do it,” the clock ticked in the dark- 
ness, and all through the night and into the 
morning. Those were the only words it 
uttered — a hundred, a thousand, ten thou 
sand times it spoke them with unvarying 
monotony, but the dreary woman in the 
dreary room never tired of hearing them. 


CHAPTER XI. 

DEAD SEA FRUIT. 

Very buoyant, very happy, very well satis- 
fied with the world in general, and himself in 
particular, felt John Greystone, Esquire, when 
he awakened the next morning. Glorious 
shone the sun and fair seemed the dull little 
city in the eyes of that young capitalist. 
Why shouldn’t he be happy? Had not her 
mother as good as told him that Genevieve’s 


136 


A COMMON MAN. 


heart was in his keeping. Oh, what a tender 
master he would be ! ' How he would plant 
her path with amaranth flowers! 

He sang like a school-boy that morning as 
he dressed himself. He tipped Sambo so 
handsomely for polishing his boots that that 
sable freeman was actually light - headed as 
long as the money lasted, and followed him 
about town for the sole purpose of baring his 
woolly head to his benefactor at frequent in- 
tervals, thereby causing no small amount of 
astonishment on the part of the latter. Sambo 
informed at least a dozen new’-made citizens of 
his own complexion that “in cou’se Mister 
Linkum was de greatest man an’ Mister 
George Washin’ton was de nex’, but after 
dem two, sub, dis niggah reckons General 
Greystone am ’bout de nex’ greates’ in de 
Ian’.” 

The next greatest man treated everybody 
about the City Hotel to champagne, and as 
for cigars, the number that he distributed 
was marvelous. Yet, in the midst of his 
great happiness, there was a feeling of rest- 
lessness that grew with a rapidity akin to 


A COMMON MAN. 


137 


that of the bean-stalk of child-lore, and that 
finally culminated in a resolve to drive to 
Mrs. Kenwood’s and see Genevieve that very 
hour. And it was in the very moment of 
this resolve that a disreputable - looking little 
negro presented himself with a note addressed 
to “Mr. Jno. Greystone.” The messenger did 
not belong to the Fitzhugh place, but the hand- 
writing was that of a woman, and he tore the 
envelope open with nervous haste to discover 
the following brief epistle, written in a strag- 
gling, childish hand: 

“ Dear Mr. Grey stone : 

“Will you please call at the house this 
afternoon ? 

“Yours respy., 

“Matilda Fitzhugh.” 

Though the brief note was an enigma to him, 
you may be sure that he did not take long to 
answer the summons, and the span of horses 
that he had already ordered for the drive to 
Mrs. Keifwood’s was soon scattering the gravel 
on the carriage-drive in front of the big brick 
house. 

Miss Tildah Fitzhugh was apparently await- 


138 


A COMMON MAN. 


ing his arrival, and came toward him with one 
thin hand extended as he ascended the steps. 
Her unusual pallor, her nervous trembling, and 
the dark circles under the eyes, reminded him 
unpleasantly of her sudden attack, which had 
terminated his visit so suddenly the evening 
before. He wondered more and more what it 
all meant', as, the first formal greeting over, he 
obeyed the motion of the thin hand, and took 
the proffered seat near her own. John Grey- 
stone had never been distinguished for any 
particular ease of manner, and, as he sat there 
under the tense scrutiny of Aunt Tildah’s 
gleaming eyes, he grew absolutely uncomfort- 
able. If she could only have dared to speak to 
him of Alfred West! Once, after a hasty and 
suspicious glance at the door and windows, she 
bent toward him, and it seemed as though she 
must speak of him; but, if her lips moved, it 
was with no audible sound, and the struggle 
passed. 

Finally John Greystone said: “ !• received 
your note. Miss Fitzhugh.” 

“Did it surprise yo.u?” asked the lady. 

“Well, yes, it did,” he replied, frankly. 


A COMMON MAN, 


139 


‘‘Did you think Genevieve had come iiome?” 

“I didn’t know just what to think. I came 
as quickly as I could,” he answered. 

“Genevieve will be here this evening,” said 
Aunt Tildah, who could not fail to notice the 
unconcealed pleasure with which he received 
the information. 

“Will she?” eagerly. “Thank you very 
much for letting me know. But — I understood 
Mrs. Fitzhugh to say that she would be gone 
for two or three days.” 

“Yes, she expected to be away that long. 
She would like to stay away two or three years, 
I think; but after you went away last night 
Noel grew very anxious to have her home to- 
day, and persuaded Martha to drive over for 
her this morning. They will be sure to bring 
her back with them. Oh! very sure.” 

“I am glad to hear that Miss Genevieve is 
coming home so soon,” he said, earnestly. 

“Yes, they thought you would be — that is 
the reason they went for her,” she returned, 
coolly. 

“Thought I would be glad?” he repeated, 
incredulously. “You don’t mean to tell me 


140 


A COMMON MAN. 


that Miss Genevieve is coming back to-day just 
to please me?’’ 

The pale lips quivered for a moment, and 
Grey 3 tone heard again the weird, mirthless 
laugh that had startled him as a boy thirteen 
years before. “That is what I mean to say. 
They are going to bring her home to please 
you,” she said. “Noel is naturally so kind, 
and then you can't imagine how anxious they 
are here for your pleasure. Why, if she had 
gone to the other end of the world they would 
bring her back to you if they thought it would 
please you.” 

Greystone looked about him anxiously. He 
recalled the suddenness of the woman’s attack 
on the evening before, and he wondered why she 
had been left alone in the state in which he 
found her. Then the humiliating thought 
occurred to him that this keen-tongued lady 
was amusing herself by making him the butt 
of her sarcasm. 

“I must say that I don’t understand you. 
Miss Fitzhugh,” he said, with some show of 
resentment. 

“No? You never will, either; but you’ll 


A COMMON MANo 


141 


understand ISToel and Martha and Genevieve 
before you leave this porch,” she said, fiercely. 
‘‘What would you say if I told you that Gene- 
vieve doesn’t love you any more than she loves 
the dust under her feet? That Martha despises 
you and laughs at you behind your back, be- 
cause you are common? That Noel is using 
you, because he is on the verge of financial 
ruin, and unless you give him money he will 
be disgraced ?^^ 

She waited for his answer. There was a 
sterner glitter in the gray eyes and harder 
lines in the rugged face as he said: “Don’t 
ask me questions, woman, and don’t talk in 
conundrums. Say your say and stick to the 
truth, for you’ll have to prove every word 
of it.” 

She laughed again, weirdly, mirthlessly, at 
the threat, and then, out there in the glorious 
sunshine, on that broad veranda where the 
child had given food to the outcast, she 
brought forth the last skeleton of the Fitz- 
hugh house and blasted John Greystone’s life. 
“ I don’t suppose Noel told you that he didn’t 
have a dollar in the world when he tried to 


143 


A COMMON MAN. 


sell you that worthless coal land. Anyhow\ 
he didn’t have, and the house and land will 
be sold under the hammer when the interest 
on the mortgage falls due in October. But 
that isn’t the worst of it — almost a year ago, 
when he was speculating in oil, he went to 
Arthur Sedgwick and borrowed five thousand 
dollars from him on his note secured by the 
house already mortgaged to its full value. 
Sedgwick had no idea of this, and was in 
love with Genevieve, and not only loaned 
him the money, but promised to keep it a 
secret. Noel gambled the money away in a 
week, and now the note wilL be due in a few 
days, and in a few days more the place will 
be sold, and Sedgwick, who is far from rich, 
will see that he has been humbugged. After 
that Noel couldn’t live in Kentucky or any 
other Southern State. He’ll kill himself be- 
fore the day of the sale. When you came he 
tried to sell you the land because it w^ould 
have saved him. He found you didn’t want 
the old land and that you did want Genevieve, 
and so he made up his mind to sell you the 
girl instead of the land. He took it for 


A COMMON . MAN. 


143 


granted that as Genevieve’s husband you 
would not refuse him what money he needed. 
He had a hard time winning Mrs. Fitzhugh 
over, for you were so dreadfully common that 
at first she wouldn’t hear of having you in 
the family under any circumstances. But 
he won her over and made her talk Gene- 
vieve into it. That was the hardest struggle 
of all, and the girl came mighty near balking 
the whole scheme. But her mother talked 
about duty and went on till she gave in at 
last.” 

“ She did make an appeal, though !” ex- 
claimed Greystone, clinging with the supreme 
faith of love to that one frail hope. 

‘^Oh! yes, she made an appeal and fought 
hard against it, but it was with no thought 
of you,” said the woman, contemptuously. 
‘‘She fought against it for her own sake, 
because she said you were too common, too 
far beneath her. She sacrificed you without 
a thought of your happiness when it was 
made clear to her that the family honor, the 
boys! future, her father’s life, everything dear 
to her, depended on the marriage. She con- 


144 


A COMMON MAN. 


sen ted then, but couldn’t bear the sight of 
you all at once, and ran away to avoid you. 
And they thought I didn’t know about their 
schemes — just as if I couldn’t listen without 
being seen — just as if the clock couldn’t talk. 
What a joke! What a joke! What a joke!” 

She had expected an outburst of anger from 
her listener, but he did not utter a word. She 
knew that he had been deeply moved, for the 
man’s changed demeanor was as expressive as 
any words could have been, and his suffering 
was visible in the contracted brow, the harshly 
compressed lip and the fiercely clinched hand. 

“You haven’t asked me to prove what I 
said. Do j^ou believe it?” she asked. 

“Every word,” he answered, between his 
set teeth. 

“Are you going to tell Noel that I told you?” 

“No,” he replied. 

“I am glad of that. I v^ould rather he 
wouldn’t know it. But I’m not afraid of 
him — I despise him too much for that. I 
hate him, John Greystone, but I have not 
told you all this because of my hatred. I 
have told you for your own sake, because 


A COMMON MAN. 


145 


I— I like you more than anybody else, and 
I wanted to save you. You don’t deserve to 
suifer, and he does — I wouldn’t see 3^011 sacri- 
ficed for his convenience.” The words of the 
woman were so tenderly spoken that he looked 
up, wonderingly. 

“I don’t want you to think badl}' of me,” 
she continued, entreatingl^’. “I’d rather an}"- 
body else would do that. I want you to be- 
lieve that I told 3rou for j^our own sake.” 

“ Thank j'OU,” he said, simphc And as he 
rose to go he took the hand extended toward 
him. 

He drove slowly through the gate that old 
Zekiel held open for him, and paused irreso- 
lutely" in the middle of the road. Then Aunt 
Tildah, watching him from the house, saw 
him turn the horses to the left toward the 
road leading out of town. 

He let them jog along at their own gait, 
and gave himself up to bitter thought. 

And it was for this humiliation that he had 
toiled all those years; for this that he had 
worshiped with unswerving faith the god- 
dess of Love in the image of a child; it was 


146 


A COMMON MAN. 


this woman whom he had worked for and 
loved and thought of day and night ; this 
woman — whom his boyhood, aye, his man- 
hood, had trusted infinitely, without reason, 
as naturally as he drew the breath of life — 
who had despised him at last, and had bar- 
gained for his hand for the sake of her people, 
as heedless of his feelings as she would have 
been of those of any negro slave whose sale 
might have been to the interest of the Fitz- 
hugh family. 

For the first time he knew the emptiness of 
his wealth; for the first time he sounded the 
depths of human misery. The world seemed 
changed and laboring in a thraldom of hypocrisy. 

Slowly ascending a hill, he overtook an old 
negro who seemed to walk with difl&culty and 
leaned at times upon the sturdier arm of a 
negress who accompanied him. He drew rein 
and asked the man where he was going. 

“I’s walkin’, massa,” replied the man, re- 
moving his hat with that respect for the 
superior race inherent in all old house-slaves. 
John Grey stone knew what the term meant — 
that the man had been turned away from his 
master’s plantation. 

“What are you walking for?” he asked. 

“It’s about one ob dese here pensions, 
massa,” the man replied. “My boy fought 


A COMMON MAN. 


147 


for Mister Linkum an’ freedom, an’ he got hit 
wid a shell dat gib him a pow’ful misery in 
his side, an’ he done ’plied fur pension. Major 
Kenwood was mighty mad when he heard it, 
an’ sez he hab’n’ got no use fur pension nig- 
gahs; an’ he tole me to get out ob de cabin and 
neber show myself roun’ dere no mo’— an’ so 
I’s walkin’, massa.” 

The old man looked weary enough, but re- 
mained standing, respectfully. 

“Where are you going now?” asked Greystone. 

“Dunno where I’s goin’. Major Kenwood 
owned me since I was a boy. I’s in de good 
Lawd’s ban’s now. Nobody wants two po’ 
ole niggahs!” 

“Did Major Kenwood order you off, too?” 
asked John, turning to the old v/oman. 

“No, suh,” answered the woman. “ De 
missis said I could stay, but I’s been wid Israal 
for forty year an’ I’s walkin’ whereber he goes. 
Dressed be de Lawd for dat!” 

John Greystone brought his whip down 
heavilj^ and the startled horses dashed up the 
hill. At another time he would have given 
the old couple more money than they had ever 
seen, but not now. What was this black man 
that he had won what all John Greystone’s 
money could not buy? 

A mile further on he turned his horses from 


148 


A COMMON MAN. 


the road and forced his way for a short distance 
along the side of a stream that intersected the 
road. When he could progress no further with 
the vehicle, he left it and proceeded afoot 
through the underbrush, looking carefully 
about him as if for dimly remembered land- 
marks. When he stopped at last, it was with 
difficulty that he remembered the spot where 
he haH rested as an outcast, and had buried 
the token of his boyish humiliation. The dell 
was much changed, for a regiment had bivou- 
acked there, and the ground was still littered 
with remnants of battered camping utensils. 
He glanced furtively about at the foot of a 
huge tree whose bare limbs were as devoid of 
life as was his own heart of hope. He kicked 
aside two or three heaps of rubbish and turned 
over a dark piece of leather that proved to be 
the decayed remains of a knapsack. Bah! 
John Greystone, as well search in your own 
warped nature for the love that you buried 
there thirteen years ago. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A FAIE maid’s • IDEAL. 

If John Greystone had entertained the slight- 
est doubt as to the truth of Aunt Tildah’s dis- 


A COMMON MAN. 


149 


closure, it would have disappeared after his 
visit to the Fitzhughs the next day. If he had 
only remained ignorant he would have been the 
happiest of men, for never before had he been 
the recipient of so much kind attention from 
Genevieve. He found himself in close prox- 
imity to her at all times, and the very awk- 
wardness that had weighed upon him before 
seemed to have disappeared beneath the ami- 
ability of her presence. She sang for him as 
she had never sung before, choosing his favorite 
songs with naive simplicit5^ At an early hour. 
Judge Fitzhugh recalled the imperative nature 
of some unfinished work in the library, and 
Mrs. Fitzhugh, pleading a headache, retired 
shortly after, leaving Genevieve alone with 
her guest. Alone for two hours in the moon- 
light with a man whose love for herself had 
never been concealed, and yet unable to win 
a proposal from him. She did not deem it 
necessary to make any effort at first, for surely 
a man who had tried to propose to her a half 
dozen times in as many weeks would not need 
encouragement under the circumstances. But 
the man was apparently oblivious of his oppor- 
tunity, and, though she did not remember that 
he had ever before appeared quite so much at 
his ease, his conversation drifted further and 
further from any subject of a tender nature. 


150 


A COMMON MAN. 


Accomplished flirt as she was, Genevieve was 
for the flrst time aware that she did not thor- 
oughly understand the commonplace man at 
her side, and, though she could not have told 
why, felt a vague uneasiness of being under 
inspection. At last she spoke of Sedgwick, for 
she felt confident that Grey stone was jealous 
of him. “Do you know I have not seen him 
to-day,’’ she said. 

“Does he come every day?” asked John. 

“No; but I had half expected he would be 
here to welcome me home. ” 

“Would you care much, one way or the other, 
whether you saw him or not?” he asked, bend- 
ing toward her slightly. 

She laughed so that her eyes sparkled and 
her teeth glistened in the moonlight. 

“What a question!” she exclaimed. “Yes, 
of course I would care. He is very apprecia- 
tive, and always devoted, and girls like devo- 
tion, you know. There are others I would 
miss more, though.” 

“Do you really mean that?” he questioned, 
earnestly. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

“I have thought sometimes that you cared 
for him.” 

‘IThe idea! I could never look up to him. 
He has accomplished nothing and never will 


A COMBION MAN. 


151 


accomplish anything. I have always liked 
him well enough, but he is not my ideal of a 
man. ’ ’ 

“And what is your ideal, Miss Genevieve?” 

“I have never told it to any one before. My 
ideal man must have great strength of charac- 
ter and self- independence. It wouldn’t matter 
whether his father was a prince or a plowman, 
but he must be brave and manly.” 

“Is that all?” he asked. 

“Not quite. He must be generous, and he 
must love me better than all the world beside. ’ ’ 
There was an appeal in the soft voice, there 
was witchery in every curve of the fair form, 
yet John Greystone only said lightly, “ The 
last requirement is too easy. Miss Genevieve; 
it would not require an ideal man to comply 
with it. I wish you would sing one more song 
for me before I go.” She went into the parlor 
and sang the words of one of his favorite songs 
— a simple ballad, which drifted out to him 
in her rich contralto voice. Yet his face only 
liardened while he listened, and if there was 
the faintest lingering pressure of her hand 
when they parted a half hour later, he did not 
return it. 

“Well?” said Mrs. Fitzhugh, interrogatively, 
when Genevieve v/ent upstairs. 

“I have not accepted him, mamma,” said 


152 


A COMMON MAN. 


that young lady. “I couldn’t very well, as 
he didn’t propose.” 

“But why did he not? ” questioned Mrs. 
Fitzhugh, unable to comprehend the situation. 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied Gene- 
vieve. “ Maybe he doesn’t know how, and 
maybe he does not want to.” 

“He is just a little timid, that is all,” re- 
marked the mother. “I never saw a man more 
in love.” 

“Ho you think I will have to propose to him, 
mamma?” asked Genevieve, demurely, as her 
mother kissed her good-night. 


CHAPTER Xiri. 

BUYING A BRIDE. 

John Greystone did not call on the Fitz- 
hughs the following day, and no further men- 
tion was made of his failure to propose to Gene- 
vieve. Yet, on the plausible theory of cause 
and effect, the nervousness of the master of the 
house might have been ascribed to the non- 
appearance of the young capitalist. 

Aunt Tildah, on the contrary, appeared to be 
in unusually good spirits, visibly heightened 
when the name of their recent visitor was men- 
tioned. She imparted the information that he 


A COMMON MAN. 


153 


had spoken to her of little Lucy Kent in very 
flattering terms, and wondered if he might not 
prove as fickle as better-bred men, and equally 
capable of transferring his affections. She con- 
ceived a sudden interest in the future prospects 
of her young nephews, and asked her brother 
whether he intended sending them to the Uni- 
versity of Virginia, where the Fitzhugh boys 
had been educated from time out of mind. This 
question being pressed in the presence of the 
boys — who were as anxious as less aristocratic 
youngsters to indulge in the untried delights of 
a boarding-school — they did not fail to improve 
the occasion by begging to be sent there the 
coming fail, to the annoyance of their parents 
and the secret gratification of Aunt Tildah. Al- 
together, the day was an unsatisfactory one, 
and Judge Fitzhugh started to his office the 
next morning an hour earlier than was his wont. 
But the thoughts that had harassed him at 
liorne followed him every step of the way, 
through the dull streets to the post-office, and 
from the post-office to the Southern Hotel, 
where he spent a restless half hour, and from 
the Southern Hotel to his office over the bank, 
where they had been unwelcome visitors this 
many a day. Presently there is a step in the* 
passage, followed by a knock on the door, and 
Judge Fitzhugh, starting as if the manifesta- 


154 


A COMMON MAN. 


tion was one of a supernatural character, saj^s 
nervously, “Come in.” Whereupon a well- 
dressed gentleman, with dark hair and eyes and 
smiling white teeth, opens the door and enters. 

“Ah, Sedgwick, good* morning. I’m glad to 
see you.” And the Judge, rising, places a 
chair for that gentleman, who drops into it 
gracefully, and inquires politely about Mrs. and 
Miss Fitzhugh. During the conversation that 
ensues and continues for a half hour or more, 
Arthur Sedgwick does not fail to notice the pre- 
occupied manner of Judge Fitzhugh, though the 
latter has never been more polite, more concili- 
atory. “The ladies at -the house have missed 
you lately, Arthur,” he said. “You must not 
forget old friends, you know, even for the fair 
Lucy Kent.” 

Sedgwick’s face clouded momentarily. “There 
is nothing in that, nothing,” he said, hastily. 
“The ladies are very kind to miss me, I’m 
sure, but I did not suppose your friend Mr. 
Greystone allowed them an opportunity to miss 
anybody. By the way, are congratulations 
in order?” 

“N— no,” replied the Judge. “Greystone is 
only a friend of the family.” 

“ I had hardly thought otherwise, but you 
know what a small place is for gossip. Of 
course, he has told you he is going away?” 


A COMMON MAN. 


155 


“No,” said Judge Fitzhugh, visibly inter- 
ested. “ It cannot be true. \Vhen is he 
going?” 

“To-morrow, I think. I only just heard it 
at the bank. I’m not sure whether it’s to- 
morrow, though, as I was not interested enough 
to pay much attention. Weil, I’ll have to be 
going. Please present my compliments to the 
ladies. Oh, about that five thousand dollars. 
I know the note is not due for six weeks, 
Judge, but I can use the money to advantage 
at the end of that time, and I thought I 
would remind you of it. Good - morning.” 
And Arthur Sedgwick, who had smiled un- 
ceasingly during the hour that he had re- 
mained, except when Lucy Kent’s name was 
mentioned, smiled himself out of the office 
just as John Grey stone entered it. 

For months Noel Fitzhugh had been tortured 
by the foreboding of ruin and disgrace that was 
ever before him until John Greystone’s unex- 
j^ected reappearance and his attitude as a prob- 
able purchaser of the coal land suggested the 
only hope that would have been possible. When 
Judge Fitzhugh’s efforts to interest the capital- 
ist in the famous land had proved unavailing, 
the only possible avenue of escape seemed closed, 
and the future had looked blacker than before, 
until Greystone’s pronounced preference for 


156 


A COMMON MAN. 


Genevieve gave the old man renewed hope and 
opened a broad way ont of all his difficulties. 
After having won over his wife and daughter, 
without an exposure of his own double dealing, 
when success at last seemed fairly within his 
grasp, without apparent reason or cause— as if 
every hope was but a mirage created to torture 
him — John Greystone had apparently lost inter- 
est in Genevieve, and had taken a notion to 
leave the place. Judge Fitzhugh was in the 
dejected state of mind consequent upon such 
bitter reflections when Greystone entered the 
room. 

There was a marked contrast between the lat- 
ter and the smiling man who had just taken his 
departure. Sedgwick, handsome, polished, de- 
bonair, faultlessly attired, was the heau ideal of 
a gentleman, his very countenance reflecting the 
veneer of society, hiding the real man as effect- 
ually as the polish on his natty low shoes con- 
cealed the rough texture of the leather. And 
what availed the silk hat or the broadcloth, coat 
of John Greystone, with his unruly locks and 
his scarred face? What time had number nine 
boots glided gracefully through the mazes of a 
waltz? What time had large, brown hands 
deftly fastened the buttons of a lady’s glove? 
What marked contrast, then, between the gentle- 
man and the common man. Greystone took the 


A COMMON MAN. 


157 


chair that had just been vacated by Sedgwick 
and removed his hat long enough to mop his 
brow with an elaborately bordered handkerchief ; 
then, replacing it on his head, he looked straight 
at Judge Fitzhugh, and said: “ I overheard 
Sedgwick’s remarks about that five thousand 
dollars; I was at the door and couldn’t help it. 
You need not worry about it, though. It is a 
small sum, and I’ll give you a check for it now 
if you say so.” 

“My dear sir!” exclaimed Judge Fitzhugh. 
“Keally, I am at a loss, sir; I am at a loss — ” 

“To account for my generosity. Exactly; I 
understand. Now, Judge, business is business, 
and we cannot be too plain with each other.” 

“Certainly,” assented Judge Fitzhugh, feebly. 

“The fact is, I have become interested in that 
coal land of yours.” 

The eyes of the ruined man sparkled, and his 
voice trembled, as he replied: “I am delighted, 
sir, to hear you say so. I am more than de- 
lighted. Any arrangement that you see 
proper — ” 

“I am interested in it to the extent of fifty 
thousand dollars,” interrupted John Greystone, 
coolly. ‘G propose to give you that sum of 
money — you can call it a loan if it suits you 
better — and you will retain entire control, and 
ownership of the property.” 


158 


A COMMON MAN. 


Judge Fitzliiigil rose from liis chair and 
glanced out of the window on the dusty street 
and the dilapidated court-house, as if to assure 
himself by those familiar landmarks of the real- 
ity of the exciting moment. “I see. You wish 
to remain a silent partner in the mines? ” he 
said, interrogatively. 

“ISTo, I don’t want any partnership in them. 
I have enough mines now of another sort.” 

The Judge was at a loss to understand his 
visitor. “And the fifty thousand dollars?” he 
said, clinging to the most tangible words that 
had been uttered. “In what manner do you 
propose to remunerate yourself financially for 
the investment?” 

“I don’t propose to remunerate myself finan- 
cially^'^^ replied Greystoue. “And I don’t want 
you to feel bound to put the money under 
ground. I don’t mean it as a loan, either.” 

“My dear sir, will you please tell me what 
you do mean?” asked the Judge, desperately. 

“You can call it a present, if j’^ou wish,” said 
the other, looking, keenly at Judge Fitzhugh. 

The latter was unmistakably dazed, and in 
the few moments that elapsed ere he spoke tried 
vainly to divine the cause of the younger man’s 
unheard-of generosity. He could think of but 
one cause that possessed an element of proba- 
bility, and that was an exaggerated feeling of 


A COMMON MAN. 


159 


gratitude for the attention that the man had 
received as a boy, thirteen years before, in his 
house. And yet there was something about his 
imperturbable demeanor, the cool indifference of 
his manner, that ill accorded with the idea. He 
approached Greystone effusively, with out- 
stretched hand, which was oddly enough un- 
noticed by the latter, who had become absorbed 
in a dusty row of legal volumes on an adjacent 
shelf. Something prevented Judge Fitzhugh 
from pressing the unnoticed outward sign of his 
gratitude, but as he resumed his chair he drew 
it hearer to that of the other. 

“My dear sir,” he said, his voice trembling 
with emotion, “I don’t know how I can thank 
you sufficiently for your unexampled generosity, 
but — I cannot accept it. I need the money and 
I believe that land is worth ten times the amount ; 
but, sir, I have no claim on you.” 

The words were worthy of a Fitzhugh, but a 
poorer student of mankind than John Greystone 
could have sounded their indecision. The faint- 
est sneer curled his lip as he replied : 

“As your son-in-law. Judge Fitzhugh, I can 
presume to make you a present that won’t be 
missed out of my pile.” 

“That is a very different matter, my boy. I 
congratulate you with all my heart. You have 
seen Genevieve this morning, then?” And 


160 


A COMMON MAN. 


Judge Fitzhugh fairly beamed over the culmi- 
nation of his dearest hopes. 

“I have not seen Genevieve,” said the young- 
man, coolly, “but I came here this morning to 
ask you for her hand in marriage.” 

“If you have come for my consent, I give it 
to you with all my heart,” said the Judge, effu- 
sively. “There is no man that I would rather 
see my dear child marry, and I am sure that 
Mrs. Fitzhugh will feel equally honored, sir; 
but there is one other person concerned whose 
consent will be necessary, and that is Genevieve 
herself.” He paused, but Greystone made no 
response, and, ascribing his silence to embarrass- 
ment, Judge Fitzhugh continued: 

“I have told you how deeply you are esteemed 
by both Mrs. Fitzhugh and myself, but there is 
nothing dearer to us than our daughter’s happi- 
ness; and I am sure you will understand that 
both her own and her husband’s happiness will 
depend on their mutual love. I don’t think you 
need feel disheartened. Genevieve has not made 
a confidant of me, but I have seen even more 
than you have, for our girls in the South don’t 
show their love until it is asked. Only ask her, 
my boy. Come around this evening. You can 
be sure of a warm welcome.” 

“I will be on my way to St. Louis this even- 
ing,” said Greystone, looking hard at the Judge. 


A COMMON MAN. 


161 


“When you come back, then. I’m sure you 
won’t be gone long,” returned the latter, 
knowingly. 

The father’s confidence irritated him. “I 
have no intention of coming back,” he said. 
“I will have important business interests in St. 
Louis that will prevent any trips in the near 
future. I am going to settle there and I am 
going to marry. You seem confident enough 
that your daughter will accept me, and I don’t 
see what difference it v/ill make whether the 
proposal comes through you or from me direct. 
If she will accept at all, she will accept it 
through you, and you can say what I would 
wish better than I could myself. I need not tell 
you that as my wife she will have everything 
that money can buy. Your consent is all that 
I want, and there is only one condition that 
I will name; that is, that the marriage be 
solemnized in St. Louis, where Mrs. Fitzhugh 
has near relatives. I will hand you fifty thou- 
sand dollars the day of the wedding. I will not 
presume to offer it to you until after we are 
married.” 

Mingled emotions of anger and mortification 
had brought an unwonted flush to J udge Fitz- 
hugh’s brow more than once while John Grey- 
stone was speaking, but his sense of helplessness 
restrained his feelings, and, after all, why should 


162 


A COMMON MAN. 


he be astonished at any proposal made by so 
common a man ,as John Greystone. He was 
awkward enough to shrink from a proposal to a 
coquette who had laughed at his best efforts, 
and, recalling the barefooted outcast who had 
sold berries in Florissant, he could understand 
his desire to be married elsewhere. He even 
guessed, shrewdly, that the important business 
interests in a city where Genevieve had near rel- 
atives might have been contracted for a pretense. 
The fifty thousand dollars was the one tangible 
thought that never left his mind for an instant. 

“I think I understand, Gre^-stone,” he said, a 
faint smile perceptible about the corners of his 
mouth? “I think I understand, and I think that 
Genevieve will, too. I give my consent and 
will do my best. I will write to you to-morrow. ’’ 

“Thank you,” said Greystone, rising to 
depart. 

“Whatever happens, I wish you happiness, 
my boy, and God bless you!” 

There was no help for it. Judge Fitzhugh 
held out his hand at parting, and, after he had 
gone, mechanically placed it in his pocket. For 
the hand that he had clasped so earnestly was 
clammy with coldness, the only visible sign of 
John Greystone’ s fiercely suppressed emotions. 

However extraordinary Mrs. and Miss Fitz- 
hugh might have deemed the hasty flight of one 


A COMMON MAN. 


163 


John Greystoile on the very evening of his 
strange proposal for the hand of Genevieve, 
his prospective father-in-law appeared perfectly 
satisfied as to the causes that had led to his 
sudden departure. 

Before apprising Genevieve of the proposal, 
he sought Mrs. Fitzhugh and gave her as full 
an account of the interview at his office as was 
possible without disclosing the fact of the pecuni- 
ary consideration that was involved. For rea- 
sons of his own he preferred to remain silent on 
that subject, and only told his wife that, from 
the tenor of Greystone’s conversation, he was 
confident that he would be as generous as they 
could wish. Mrs. Fitzhugh made no effort to 
conceal her dissatisfaction either with the man- 
ner bf the proposal or the strange departure of 
the man who had made it, and declared his con- 
duct barbarous from beginning to end. “Oh, I 
wish that the marriage was not necessary, 
Noel,’’ she said, desperately. 

Her husband’s brow clouded. “We have dis- 
cussed all that before, Martha, and I have told 
you how necessary it is.” 

“Why didn’t he propose to her himself, like a 
man?” asked Mrs. Fitzhugh, warmly. 

“My dear, it is impossible for you to under- 
stand how hard it would have been for him. 
He is awkward and bashful, and Genevieve has 


164 


A COMMON MAN. 


put him off so of tea whea he tried to do it — you 
know you told me so yourself — that I really be- 
lieve he is a little afraid of her.’’ 

“And why can’t they be married here?” per- 
sisted the lady. “What possible excuse can we 
give for sending Genevieve to his home to be 
married. It is unprecedented. It is a disgrace! 
People will never stop talking about it. His 
pretense of business is utterly ridiculous, and we 
would be laughed at by everybody if we were 
foolish enough to repeat it. ’ ’ 

“There is no need of repeating it, Martha,” 
said the Judge, quietly, taking one of her nerv- 
ous hands in his own. “And Genevieve is not 
really going to his home to be married. St. 
Louis is as much her home as his, and your 
aunt, Mrs. Heighdecker, who lives for society, 
will be only too glad to have the wedding at her 
house. As for — ” 

“That doesn’t excuse him,” interrupted Mrs. 
Fitzhugh, “and it won’t keep people from talk- 
ing, either. You know that as well as I do, 
Hoel.” 

“People won’t talk as much as you think they 
will, my dear. Besides, there is no necessity 
for telling them all the particulars. There is no 
reason why Genevieve shouldn’t visit her aunt, 
and there is no reason why Grey stone shouldn’t 
court her in St. Louis, as well as here. When 


A COMMON MAN. 


165 


the marriage takes place, people will more 
readily think that we allowed the ceremony to 
take place there to please Mrs. Heighdecker than, 
to please J ohn Greystone. Some of them may 
say that we couldn’t afford the expense, and 
others may say that Genevieve has had her head 
turned by society, but you may be sure that no- 
body will ever guess the real reason.” 

“But that does not excuse Mr. Greystone,” 
said Mrs. Fitzhugh, in a quieter tone, showing 
that her husband’s arguments had not been 
without effect. 

“No, that does not excuse John Greystone, 
Martha; but if you will only try to put yourself 
in his place and look at things from his — his 
common standpoint, you will not blame him 
as much as you do now. However necessary 
money may be, blood is blood, and John Grey- 
stone feels it more to-day with his million than 
he ever did before. He wouldn’t acknowledge 
that he is ashamed of his origin, for there 
never was a common man who would; but 
he is, you may be sure, and he is ashamed 
to marry in a town where every man, woman 
and child knows that he once tramped the 
streets almost naked and half starved. If 
he had come from gentle people, he might feel 
differently, because then he would remember 
who he was; but as it is he doesn’t want 


166 


A COMMON MAN. 


to remember; he wants to forget, and his only 
chance is in a big city like St. Louis, where 
nobody ever heard of him in the old days. Can’t 
you understand now why he v^ould invent any 
sort of an excuse to be married there instead of 
here?” 

“Yes,” assented Mrs. Fitzhugh, hesitatingly. 
“I wonder if Genevieve can be brought to see it 
in that light?” 

“You must explain it to her some v/aj", 
Martha. You understand her better than I do. 
I wouldn’t dwell any more than I could help on 
Greystone’s common origin, for it would only 
turn her against him. As it is, I think she is 
inclined to like him, and I hope — I hope she will 
grow to love him. Don’t you think she will, 
Martha? He is so much in love with her, and 
he will be able to do so much for her. ’ ’ 

“She will be happier if she does; she is cap- 
able of a great love,” said the mother, thought- 
fully, almost regretfully. “But in any event 
she will not disappoint you, ISToel. She has 
given her word and she will kbep it.” 

So it was from Mrs. Fitzhugh that Genevieve 
first heard of the formal proposal of John Grey- 
stone, who was a hundred miles away at the 
time, sitting off by himself in the Pullman, 
looking out on the night with something very 
like a frown on his broad brow, and thinking of 


A COMMON MAN. 


167 


Genevieve. Though the latter had at first 
haughtily resented what she termed “ the insult 
of that man,” schooled by her clever husband, 
Mrs. Fitzhugh made every excuse possible for 
Greystone, and, while acknowledging that he 
knew but little of the laws of polite society, she 
declared that his very ignorance palliated his 
offense. 

“If he didn’t know any better, then why 
didn’t papa tell him?” asked the young girl, 
with heaving breast and flashing eyes. “Am 
I to be sent to St. Louis with a placard announc- 
ing that I am for John Greystone?” 

She was so angry that Mrs. Fitzhugh was fain 
to repeat to her in the end every reason that her 
husband had advanced to palliate Greystone’s 
conduct, and Genevieve, her sympathies once 
aroused, though only for the sensitiveness of a 
false pride, was more easily reconciled to the 
situation. But far more potent than her passing 
sympathy for the man she was to wed was her 
deep interest in the welfare of those of her own 
blood at home, and it was when the mother 
drew her thoughts to the pressing needs of those 
dear ones that she Anally yielded, and said, “It 
doesn’t matter where we are married, mamma, 
or when. I don’t blame him for wanting to have 
it away from here, but I would have respected 
him more if he had shown more moral courage.” 


168 


A COMMON MAN, 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WEDDING PREPAKATIONS. 

It was only a v.^'eek before the wedding, and 
for nearly a month Genevieve had been the guest 
of her grand-aunt, Mrs. Eleanor Heighdecker. 
The last of several hundred invitations .to the 
important social event had been distributed; 
an elaborate trousseau (Judge Fitzhugh had 
been very generous in that regard) had been 
selected by the joint efforts of the prospective 
bride and her aunt; the flowers had been or- 
dered, and every detail had been attended to by 
the veteran of two-score of social campaigns. 
There seemed nothing left to be done but to re- 
ceive gracefully the bouquets that arrived daily,’ 
and the visits of their donor a, few hours later. 
Of course, Mrs. Heighdecker had made a few 
" natural inquiries as to the antecedents and con- 
nections of John Grej'stone, and Genevieve had 
told her frankly that he was a self-made man, 
and that he had no connections that she was 
aware of. Mrs. Heighdecker was not slow to 
grasp the situation, but, having lived long 
enough to realize the necessity of money in her 
sphere, and being fully aware of the straitened 
circumstances of her niece’s husband, she ap- 
proved heartily of the match, and entered with 


A COMMON MAN. 


169 


her usual enthusiasm into the complex arrange- 
ments for the wedding. 

“No, my dear, I can’t say that I think him 
handsome,” she had remarked on one occasion, 
“but he is quite distingue, and that is much 
better. He behaves unusually well, too, under 
the trying circumstances.” 

Genevieve, lounging gracefully on a soft 
divan, raised her dark eyebrows interrogativel5\ 

“I mean, dear, that he restrains his feelings 
in compan3^ I never saw a man in his position 
who was less demonstrative, or, at the same 
time, more attentive. There are few prospective 
bridegrooms who don’t make themselves mors 
or less ridiculous in the eyes of the world gen- 
erally, and more or less trying on the nerves 
of the poor girl.” 

“And you don’t think Mr. Greystone makes 
himself ridiculous, then?” 

“Not at all, my dear; I cannot imagine him 
in that role,” replied Mrs. Heighdecker, com- 
placently. “Of course, I don’t doubt that he 
is demonstrative enough when you are alone 
together, which is the proper time for love- 
making.” 

“Do you think he is very much in love. Aunt 
Eleanor?” 

“What a question! You just ask to hear me 
say yes. Why, of course I do. In the first 


170 


A COMMON MAN. 


place, my dear, a young man with a million dol- 
lars can do a great deal of choosing, and it can 
be taken for granted that he marries for love; in 
the second place” — and the old lady looked ad- 
miringly at the graceful beauty before her — ‘‘he 
could not help loving you if he wanted to.” 

Genevieve did not reply, and presently became 
absorbed in her own reflections. Her aunt must 
be right, and it was natural to think that he 
loved her — she had been sure of it even before 
he had proposed, and the proposal in itself was 
proof enough. But he had not been demonstra- 
tive, and the remarkable decorum that had won 
such favor from Mrs. Heighdecker had been 
carried undisturbed into their own private in- 
terviews. It was a fact, actually a fact, that 
he had never kissed her, and he seemed more 
comfortable when Mrs. Heighdecker was in the 
room than when they were alone together. 
When he took her driving, that lady generally 
occupied a seat in the vehicle, and it was small 
wonder that she had conceived a liking for a 
man who showed her so much attention. And 
yet he must love her, for once when, with droop- 
ing lids and her fair face turned toward him, 
and one little hand resting on his arm, she had 
said, softly, “John, do you know that you have 
never told me that you love me?” the deep 
earnestness of his answer had thrilled her. 


A COMMON MAN. 


171 


“I loved you the first time that I saw you,” 
he said. “When I crept away sick and weak 
from your father’s house, it was because I loved 
you. There was never one day in all those 
thirteen years on the coast that I did not think 
of you and pray for you and love you. I 
couldn’t have stood all that I have if it had not 
been for that. When fortune came at last it 
was only dear to me because I could come back 
again to you. And now, now, if the whole world 
were mine, I would give it to make you my 
wife.” 

And so it must be that he loved her. He had 
seen so little of women that awkwardness was 
natural to him in their presence, and he probably 
had crude and exaggerated ideas of the deference 
that was due them. It would all come right in 
time, and Genevieve, who had reconciled herself 
more and more to her marriage, as she saw more 
of the glamour of St. Louis society, borrowed no 
trouble from the apparent shyness of her fiance. 
The truth is that she had entertained a morbid 
dread of his caresses from the very hour that she 
had accepted him. His apparent stoicism had 
at first delighted, then piqued her, and presented 
him in the light of an enigma. However, it 
was not interesting enough to worry over after 
all, and Genevieve was not aware of any great 
desire to fathom it. 


172 


A COMMON MAN. 


With such apparent indifference for the man 
she was about to wed, it may seem strange that 
a girl in the full flush of youth and beauty could 
have approached the sacriflcial altar with smiles 
upon her fair face. Yet it must be remembered 
that under the Fitzhugh roof family prestige had 
ever been the supreme idol. She was not devoid 
of feeling, for her nature was intense, and no 
glamour of wealth could have won her consent to 
the marriage had it not been for the deep affec- 
tion that she had ever cherished for her parents 
and brothers. In the brief yet bitter mental 
struggle that had preceded her yielding, it was 
her unselfishness that had conquered, for she 
knew that only through the sacrifice of herself 
could her father be saved from ruin and dis- 
grace, and the future of the young brothers who 
bore the Fitzhugh name secured. And for all 
this, for the re-establishment of a proud house 
that had been wellnigh ruined for its loyalty to 
the sacred cause of the South, only the sacrifice 
of herself was demanded in the acceptance of a 
husband whom her parents had chosen for her. 
Had she ever loved, had her troth been plighted 
or her love given to another, it would have been 
different with her, for the same nature that sac- 
rificed so much to the loyalty of her house would 
have sacrificed a thousand times more to the 
sweeter loyalty of a woman’s love. She had 


A COMMON MAN. 


1 ^ -i 

looked mischief out of her blue eyes; she had 
smiled trouble with her red lips; she had sung 
low songs when trembling fingers turned the 
leaves; she Imd flirted like many a beauty before 
her and since, from no deeper motive than a 
young girl’s thoughtlessness and a woman’s love 
of admiration; but her heart had never been 
touched, else had she been otherwise than she 
was, and John Greystone with his million might 
have sighed in vain. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A NEW VERSION OF “BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.” 

It was early in October, the Indian summer 
of the pleasantest season of the year, and the 
sun never siione fairer, the world never looked 
brighter than on the day of John’ Greystone’s 
wedding. 

Judge and Mrs. Fitzhugh had come on to be 
present at the ceremony, and had accepted the 
hospitality of Mrs. Heighdecker, who had im- 
ported a new gown for the occasion and fairly 
dazzled the eyes of all beholders with the dia- 
monds that sparkled in her false hair and about 
her wrinkled throat. 

Genevieve had six bridemaids, judiciously 
selected Horn the very inner circle of the ton. 


174 


A COMMON MAN. 


The groom’s best man, who had been carefully 
chosen by Mrs. Heighdecker, was Archibald 
Seyton, a tall, handsome fellow, who had played 
the part a score of times — always on brilliant 
occasions. It was a church wedding, followed 
by a grand reception at the house, and every- 
body who was anybody was there. 

There was less space given by the newspapers 
to social events in those days than there is now, 
but the brilliancy of the event had become noised 
abroad, and there was not a newspaper in the 
city unrepresented on the occasion. Old ma- 
trons and young matrons, some leaning on the 
arms of their husbands, and others alone; spin- 
sters of antebellum days, who had been shelved, 
as the term goes, this many a day, and whose 
presence was not generally solicited at smaller 
events; ripe, well-seasoned beauties of three or 
four seasons, and fresh young debutantes who 
had but just "opened their petals to the social 
sun ; old men and young men and middle-aged 
men ; some who came there for champagne, and 
others who came there for more substantial and 
less exhilarating refreshment; some who came 
in search of divertisement, and others who came 
in search of an heiress; old and young, dull and 
gay, of both sexes, thronged the flower-decked 
parlors and passed in an endless stream of em- 
bodied congratulations before the bride and 


A COMMON MAN. 


175 


groom. And among all those fair ivomen the 
bride was the fairest. The French hairdresser 
who had toiled in her profession for more ^ears 
than the bride had known, had accomplished her 
chef -cV oeuvre at last in the tlutfy coils of sunny 
brown that graced the dainty head of the beaut}’. 
Old Dalrymple — that old, old beau, who had 
danced with the grandmothers of half the girls 
present in his youth, who had smiled and flat- 
tered for a half-century, who had been a lion in 
his day, and who had been laughed at for a score 
of years — old Dalrymple, who had never married, 
stood where he could see her the whole evening, 
and declared “that she was the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen in his life — except one.” 

And John — how did that common man deport 
himself on the occasion? 

“Well; undeniably well,” as Mrs. Fitzhugh 
remarked to her urbane husband, who had con- 
cluded certain little financial arrangements with 
his son-in-law that very morning. 

“My dear, this is the happiest day of my life,” 
said the Judge, enthusiastically. “Genevieve 
will be a very happy woman.” 

“Yes, I think she will be,” assented Mrs, 
Fitzhugh. “She doesn’t look unhappy. I do 
believe she has made up her mind to like him. 
She will have everything that money can give 
her, and if he is good to her— if he only makes 


176 


A COMMON MAN. 


her love him, it will be for the best after 
all.” 

“Have you heard the new version of ‘ Beauty 
and the Beast?’ ” queries that sarcastic old 
young man, Stillwell Chatterton, of Miss Ino- 
sent, the debutante, to whom he is devoting his 
attentions. 

“No. Is there a new version?” she asks, in- 
nocently. 

“Oh, yes; I’m surprised that you have not 
heard it. I’ll tell it to you. It seems that once 
upon a time, ages and ages ago, there was a cer- 
tain damsel who inhabited an enchanted castle 
ten thousand leagues from anywhere. Although 
this damsel’s father was an ogre and her mother 
an ogress, they were exceedingly fond of her, as 
was she of them. When she was quite young 
she read a story of a beautiful woman who had 
been universally charming because of the come- 
liness of her appearance, and the damsel there- 
upon asked the ogress if she, too, was not beauti- 
ful. The ogress answered : ‘Yes, my child; but’ 
— her features assuming a look of inexpressible 
sadness as she enunciated the last vexatious 
word. The damsel then sought the ogre, and 
asked him the same ingenuous question, where- 
upon he answered: ‘Yes, my child; but’ — and 
lapsed into a sadness that changed him from his 
normal color to a deep blue. And hence the 


A COMMON MAN. 


177 


word ‘blues,’ Miss Inoseut. Now, the damsel 
was sorely troubled by the replies of her parents, 
and more so as the sadness of the ogress and the 
blues of the ogre showed no signs of disappear- 
ing from that day. Shortly after this the ogre 
and ogress left their castle of enchantment, and 
conveyed the damsel with them. The}" met a 
great number of people, and the damsel asked 
many of them if she was not beautiful, and 
every one, without exception, answered: ‘Yes, 
you are ; but ’ — until she was . wellnigh dis- 
tracted. And so curiosity came into the world. 
One day, after having returned to the enchanted 
castle, she was weeping bitterly over the tortures 
inflicted upon her by curiosity, when a Siwella- 
tivygob suddenly appeared before her. Now a 
Siwellativygob, in the story that I am telling, 
was all-powerful, which you would easily under- 
stand if you knew the significance of his name, 
which, by the way, nobody in the world has ever 
known. This Siwellativygob was so affected 
by the extremity of her grief that he promised 
her, on the spot, that she should have gratified 
any one wdsh that she might name.” 

“And she wished to be beautiful!” Miss Ino- 
sent exclaimed. 

“No, she did not. If she had, that would 
have ended the story,” continued Mr. Chatter- 
ton impresvsively. “ She simply wished to know 


178 


A COMMON MAN. 


why the ogre and ogress and everybody else had 
always used the inexplicable ‘ but ’ after saying 
that she was beautiful. At this wish the Siwella- 
tivygob laughed immoderately, and told her the 
reason was (there were no mirrors in those days) 
that, while perfectly beautiful in all other re- 
spects, her complexion was abominable and 
would remain so until she could rub it with yel- 
low sand, when she would become so exceedingly 
beautiful that all men would worship her; that 
her mother’s gloom would disappear, and her 
father, who had become bluer than any indigo, 
would resume his natural color. From that time 
on — I must hasten with my story, for I fear it is 
boring you — the one great desire of the damsel’s 
life was to obtain some of the yellow sand. 
N'ever a day passed without a proposal for her 
hand, but her invariable answer was that she 
would only marry that suitor who would bring 
her the yellow sand. Hundreds came and went 
away hopeless, all for lack of the yellow sand, 
until the damsel (unlike young ladies of our day. 
Miss Inosent) became so weary of refusing suit- 
ors that a notice was posted on the castle gate 
to the effect that any suitor who entered without 
yellow sand would be beheaded. Strange to say, 
no suitors came after that for so long a time 
that the grass began to grow about the gate. 
But one day a Beast entered the castle and made 


A COMMON MAN. 


179 


his way straight to the side of the damsel, where 
he stood upon his hind legs, and, placing one 
paw upon his heart, made a declaration of love, 
in language so uncouth that only the varied ex- 
perience of the damsel enabled her to distinguish 
the meaning of his words. She was greatl}^ hor- 
rified, and the ogre was just about to order the 
monster beheaded, when he showed them a pouch 
filled to the brim with the inestimable yellow 
sand. Then the ogre and ogress embraced him, 
and the damsel married him within an hour. 
What do you think of the new version?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Inosent, who 
never did quite understand that strange Mr. 
Chatterton. “ But did he always remain a 
beast?” 

“I don’t know; the story left off right there,” 
said Mr. Chatterton, glancing reflectively at 
John Greystone as he turned the young lady 
over to her chaperone and made his way toward 
the punch- bowl. 

Of course the guests gossiped about the bride 
and groom. There never was a wedding in high 
life where they did not, and there never will be. 
But, generally speaking, they knew little enough 
of the financial affairs of that affable Judge 
Fitzhugh. Mrs, Heighdecker was rich, and there 
was apparently no necessity of a forced mar- 
riage; the bride looked animated and happy. 


180 


A COMMON MAN. 


and, above all, the appointments, the refresh- 
ments, the wines, were beyond reproach; and so 
there was a dearth of severity in the inevitable 
gossip that had entered Mrs. Heighdecker’s 
parlors. At last, after much feasting and flirt- 
ing, and congratulating; after truth had been 
inflated out of all resemblance to itself with the 
inexhaustible gas of flattery; after petty jeal- 
ousies had given any number of little stabs that 
would smart more or less, according to the sensi- 
tiveness and age of the smiling recipients of 
those tart little barbs ; after the maximum num- 
ber of white lies had finally exhausted them- 
selves and grown tiresome by repetition, the 
guests began to depart, and an hour later the 
last carriage had rolled away with its weary 
occupants. That is, the last carriage but one — 
the carriage that was to convey the bride and 
groom to their new home, located a mile distant 
in a suburb that had recently come into fashion. 
John had purchased there the costliest mansion 
that had ever been raised in St. Louis, and had 
furnished it in a style so extravagant that even 
Mrs. Heighdecker, who had taken Genevievg 
there time and again, had held up her jeweled 
fingers in astonishment. 

They spoke very little— those two— as they 
were borne away toward their new home. Gene- 
vieve wondered at the silence of her husband, 


A COMMON MAN. 


181 


and was even a trifle annoyed by it. But, after 
all, she did not feel unhappy. She had accepted 
the situation gracefully, and Mrs. Fitzhugh had 
spoken with a mother’s intuition when she said 
that Genevieve had made up her mind to like 
her husband. She knew that he was not her 
ideal, and she had shuddered at the first thought 
of spending her life with a man who was not 
what she called refined. But he might have 
been worse ; he might have been even more 
homely ; he might have been uncouth or ridicu- 
lous. He loved her, and she had made up her 
mind to like him. Something had developed in 
his nature that she did not understand, and that 
interested her. She was not sure that she did 
not like him a little even now. He was her hus- 
band. She put her hand out timidly and touclild 
his own. It was only a touch, but his hand 
was so cold that it startled her, and the next 
instant he had changed his position to open the 
window and give some instruction to the coach- 
man. They were near their destination, and a 
minute later the carriage had stopped before the 
costly mansion that John had chosen for their 
residence. With the same awkward deference 
with which he would have proffered his services 
to Mrs. Heighdecker, he offered his arm to Gen- 
evieve; and side by side they passed the portal 
of their home between the two liveried footmen 


182 


A COMMON MAN. 


who had flung open the front door on their arri- 
val. It was a large double house, with a well- 
stocked library and smoking-room to the left of 
the broad hallway, and a parlor, occupying the 
entire length of the house, on the opposite side. 
It was to the latter apartment, lonely for all its 
brilliant lights and sumptuous furniture, that 
John Greystone led his bride. 

With awkward ceremony he conducted her to 
a chair, and went over and stood near the mantel, 
with one elbow leaning upon it, and his eyes bent 
upon her. Genevieve saw for the first time that 
his face was haggard and drawn, and so white 
that the disfiguring scar upon it seemed livid. 

“John, you are ill,’’ she exclaimed, and started 
involuntarily to go to him, when she was stopped 
by a harshly imperative gesture of his hand. 

“I am not ill. If I were, I would not want 
you any nearer,” he said, with bitter earnest- 
ness. “We have not understood each other, but 
we will from now on. I am going to tell you the 
story of my life. I know yours, and it’s only 
fair that you should know mine. I don’t think 
you have ever realized how much I have loved 
you. I cannot understand it myself. From the 
first day that I saw you I loved you, and the 
first happiness I knew was when I saved you 
from that dog. You may have forgotten that, 
for I was only a vagabond, and it wasn’t pleas- 


A COMMON MAN. 


183 


ant to remember that a barefooted pariah saved 
your life at the peril of his own. Don’t interrupt 
me — I am not refined, but I believe it is ill-bred 
to interrupt. You must hear me out first. After 
I was brought to your father’s house, I was 
thankful that I had been bitten, because it 
brought me nearer to you. Every day I loved 
you more, and I think the desire to see you was 
what kept me alive. When I went away it was 
because I thought gold could be won in Califor- 
nia, and that, if I could only get rich, I could 
come back and marry you. All that I ’went 
through you will never know. It is a long story 
and would not interest you. But every hour of 
all the years I thought of you and loved you. 
I met a man out there named West, and when I 
told him about you, he laughed at me and told 
me you would be married when I saw you again. 
The thought that you might be nearly crazed me, 
and I worked half the night for months. It was 
at night that I struck the mine, and the next day 
I was on my way to the States. I thought that 
you would be glad to see me. I thought, cursed 
fool that I was, that you might even have cared 
a little for me all that time. I pictured your sur- 
prise and joy at our first meeting. I always 
thought of you as being beautiful, but I told 
myself that, even if you were maimed or dis- 
figured, I would love you just the same. 


.184 


A COMMON MAN. 


“You know the rest. You know how you 
laughed at me when I tried to tell you, again 
and again, that I loved you. It was hard to 
bear, but I forgave you and waited, willing to 
be laughed at in the hope of winning your love. 
That was very presumptuous, and I know now 
that I couldn’t have done it. If your father 
hadn’t been a beggar, you’d have sent me about 
my business soon enough. But, fortunately, he 
was a beggar, and he wanted money, and so did 
your mother, and so did you, for that matter, 
and when he found out that he couldn’t sell me 
his land, why, he made up his mind to sell me 
his daughter. He proposed it to you, and 3mu 
objected — not because you dreaded to perjure 
yourself at the altar, not because you had any 
pity for me — you never thought of my feelings 
an instant — but because I was so common that a 
union with me was abhorrent to you. But 3^11 
consented, finall3", and when 3mur father put you 
up for sale I made a bid for 3’^ou. I offered him 
fifty thousand dollars. All things considered, 
it was a big sum, but I had thought the matter 
over and I wanted you. I believe that mone3^ is 
good, because you can bu3^ whatever you v/ant 
with it. So I bought j^ou, just as I would have 
bought a horse, or a house, or a yacht, or any- 
thing else that was for sale, because I wanted to 
own you.’- 


A COMMON MAN. 


185 


The words were spoken so harshly that they 
grated on his own ear. He paused and looked 
unrelentingly on the woman before him. She 
was deadly pale, and he could see her hand trem- 
bling on the cushion where it rested. She had 
aged strangely, and in her eyes was a look that 
he had seen in those of wounded animals, wait- 
ing, helpless, for the home thrust of the hunter’s 
knife. Only that in his wife’s eyes, mingled 
with that glance, was a look of unutterable 
loathing. It may have been this look, or his 
own pride, or an uncontrollable pity, or the last 
spark of extinguished love, or his own predeter- 
mination, that prompted his next wor^s. “How 
we understand each other,” he said. “I knew 
how you felt toward me, and it is only fair that 
you should know how I feel toward you. I 
won’t ill-treat you. This side of the house is 
yours and the other side is mine. I won’t force 
myself on you, and I don’t expect you to force 
yourself on me. We couldn’t be further apart 
if I had stayed on the coast.” Without moving 
from where he stood he touched a bell, and a 
neat-looking old woman answered the summons. 
“Mrs. Kirk is my housekeeper. She will show 
you to your apartments,” he said. Genevieve 
rose from her chair, nervously, and stood a 
moment to steady herself. In that instant all 
her past life, all her present and her future came 


186 


A COMMON MAN. 


before her — hopelessly, irrevocably. Full under 
the light of the chandelier, with one hand thrust 
into his pocket and the other grasping the tap- 
estry on the mantel ; with sunken eyes and the 
cruel scar glowing on the haggard face, she saw 
her husband. Then she turned from him and 
passed out of the room, and he heard her falter- 
ing, uncertain steps upon the stairs. 


PART IL 


CHAPTER I. 

A MAN OF BUSINESS. 

Whatever feelings of bitterness, shame or 
hatred John Greystone had aroused in the breast 
of Genevieve, in that first cruel interview of 
man and wife, were hidden by an exterior of 
indifference that would have baffled a keener 
judge of human nature than John Greystone 
was. As rigidly as he had fulfilled his part in 
the payment of the stipulated amount to Judge 
Fitzhugh did she fulfill hers in maintaining and 
increasing their prestige in the social world. 
Her toilets were faultless, her equipages were 
unsurpassed, and the entertainments at the great 
granite pile that they called home were the talk 
of the social world. And in the eyes of that 


A COMMON MAN. 


187 


gay social world in which she took so prominent 
a position Genevieve was a happy wife. A few 
of her more intimate friends found her changed, 
but in what manner even Mrs. Heighdecker 
could not have explained. 

To John it seemed that she had grown older. 
He noticed an unwonted compression about the 
sensitive lips and a new light in her eyes. He 
felt that beneath all her apparent indifference 
she despised him. Despite the fact of their 
mutual knowledge that she had been bought and 
sold just as any other expensive ornament in his 
house, he felt, with impotent, silent anger, that 
she despised him. She had spoken no words 
that could have inspired the feeling, and the 
events of that first night had never been men- 
tioned by either of them. But, though they met 
daily, though they usually dined and often went 
driving and attended entertainments together, 
he felt further removed from her than ever be- 
fore. With all his hatred of her class, a hatred 
that had increased tenfold, he could not deny the 
superiority of the pride that sustained her in 
the trying ordeal of her daily life — that pride 
of blood and name, false though it might be, 
that could have smiled confidently always, if 
only the world believed in the mask. And for 
all his own stubborn pride, for all his knowledge 
that he had bought and paid for every luxury of 


188 


A COMMON MAN. 


their lives, that his money alone had saved the 
proud name of Fitzhugh from disgrace, no day 
passed in which he did not feel his inferiority. 
He would not have acknowledged it even to 
himself, but he felt it none the less keenly for 
that, in a hundred pettj^ details. He felt it in/ 
conscious awkwardness in his own parlors; he 
felt it when Miss Inosent, in the presence of his 
wife, commanded him playfully not to call her 
“Mam,” a harmless Westernism in which he 
had been wont to indulge with thoughtless fre- 
quency in his conversations with the fair sex ; 
he felt it at his own dinner parties, in the pres- 
ence of guests who were always more at their 
ease than their host — notably on one occasion, 
when he had discovered that he was the only 
person present using his knife with the fish; he 
felt it in the different demeanor of the colored 
servants toward himself and their mistress — not 
that the well-trained menials were impertinent, 
not that they intended to show any difference ; 
but there was a difference, and the master who 
paid them, the master who vaunted the belief 
that money could buy all things, felt it daily. 

It was fortunate for John Grey stone during 
those first months of his married life that the 
reorganization of the vast iron works that he 
had purchased required a good deal of time and 
energy, affording him a divertisement from the 


A COMMON MAN. 189 

dissatisfaction of his home life that amusements 
could not have furnished. 

In proportion as his hatred of the exclusive 
set, to which he had bought an entree, increased, 
did his interest deepen in the great lower class, 
from which he had risen. He felt more at ease 
with the foreman of the works than he did in 
the company of the fashionable gentlemen who 
smoked his cigars and drank his wines. He 
could throw one leg over the arm of his chair in 
the presence of Jim Stubbs, and he could empha- 
size his remarks with any number of Western- 
isms with perfect freedom from embarrassment, 
but he could not have done either comfortably 
in a tete-a-tete with that suave Mr. Stillwell 
Chatter ton, who he always thought was secretly 
laughing at him, and who had declined a cigar 
on one occasion with the casual remark that any 
brand costing more than ten cents was too strong 
for him. 

The numerous buildings of the Great Western 
Iron Works covered acres of ground, and a thou- 
sand men and boys were employed in them. In- 
cluding the families of the employes, there were 
several thousand persons indirectly dependent 
on the great smelting and manufacturing con- 
cern, and they formed a town of no inconsider- 
able proportions just on the western outskirts of 
St. Louis. John drove out every morning be- 


190 


A COMMON MAN. 


tween eight and nine o’clock, and back again 
in the evening in time for late dinner. Some 
months after he had obtained control of the 
works, he had called the men together in the 
town hall and delivered a brief speech, in which 
he informed them that their work was not gen- 
erally as satisfactory as it might be, and that he 
believed the cause was due to lack of interest. 
There were some dark scowls among the laborers 
at this, and a distinct murmur of disapproval of 
their new master’s frank utterance, but it was 
onl}" momentary, for his next words lightened a 
thousand tired hearts under the coarse blouses. 

“When a man finds a defect in anything under 
his control,” he said, “he should try to find a 
remedy for it, and that’s what I tried to do 
when I found that you men lacked interest here. 
First, I thought of putting the whole lot of you 
on piece-work, and I spoke with Jim Stubbs 
about it. But he talked against it, and said it 
wouldn’t do, and so I tried to think of a better 
plan, and I’ve done it. After to-day everj^ dol- 
lar of profit over ten per cent will be divided up 
among you men according to the amount of your 
wages. Last year the profit was almost nine 
and a quarter per cent; this year you can make 
it tv/elve if 5mu want to. And now that you are 
all together, I want to say one more thing. I 
want you men to come right to me when any- 


A COMMON MAN. 


191 


thing goes wrong, and I’ll do my best to set it 
right. I’ve seen as hard times as any of you, 
and I’ve worked a heap harder many a day.” 

It was not much of a speech, but it gave a 
new object in life to a thousand rough toilers 
who had looked always upon its darker side, and 
there was no lack of interest after that. As for 
John, the only happiness he had enjoyed since 
the day when Tildah Fitzhugh had exhibited 
one of her family skeletons was derived from the 
practical success of his theory. But he had not 
betrayed the origin of the idea, which was the 
result of the merest accident. He had started to 
the works an hour earlier than usual one morn- 
ing, when his horse cast a shoe, and John, leav- 
ing him with the blacksmith, whose shop was 
located within a hundred yards of the main office 
of the Great Western Iron Works, started to 
complete the distance on foot. It happened that 
he passed near two of the poorer class of iron- 
workers, and overheard the following colloquy : 

“See here, Tim, ain’t it ’bout time yer was 
get tin’ ter work?” 

“Naw, I ben’t got to. I ben’t goin’ to work 
no more’n I got to.” 

“Yer’ll get docked, then, er fired out.” 

“Naw, I won’t neither. Smikes ain’t keepin’ 
no track o’ these tailin’s, an’ I heered Jim 
Stubbs say he’d be at the pit all mornin’. I ain’t 


192 


A COMMON MAN. 


goin’ ter work any mor’n I have ter work. See? 
What does them fool blokes get that works the 
hardest? They jest gets wored out an’ dies 
sooner. I ben’t no fool bloke, I ben’t.” 

And that was the colloquy that had led to the 
great step toward socialism. Six months before 
the master would have discharged the idler on 
the spot, and put a stricter surveillance over the 
less important branches of the works. On an- 
other morning, at another hour, it might have 
borne no good fruit, but the prosperous man had 
suffered keenly in those six last months. Under 
the rough exterior and boastful demeanor were 
feelings susceptible to pain and sensitive to ridi- 
cule ; beyond the firm lips that had scorned the 
patrician woman, and far beneath his assumed 
arrogance of affluence, was a restless, unac- 
knowledged pain in the thought that she de- 
spised him. He had built the barrier between 
them; he strengthened it every day, but at night 
a wretched man beat against it impotently and 
struggled against the work of his own hands. 
Yet his sorrow had taught him a broader char- 
ity, except toward the one hated' class, and so 
it was that the words of Tim Pudder fell like an 
ugly seed upon a fertile soil and blossomed into 
a fair flower at last. 

John seldom mentioned business affairs at 
home, and he did not speak of the new order of 


A COMMON MAN. 


193 


things to his wife. He told Jim Stubbs, and 
that worthy man, reticent with all men, and. all 
women except one, straightway told Mrs. Stubbs 
under the veil of secrecy, and so in the course 
of time the story became known through all 
Irontown. Tim Pudder, the tale even reached 
thy dull ears, and the pollen of the flower fell 
and thrived on the barren soil of thy stunted 
nature. 

So the first half-year of John Greystone’s 
married life came and went. And through him 
the lives of thousands were changed by his com- 
ing, and many a dull path knew a little more 
of brightness; but his own path traversed the 
shadow unchanged, seeming ever to diverge 
further and further from the footsteps of his wife. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE CREST ON THE SILVER SPOON. 

It is doubtful if Genevieve would have attrib- 
uted any refinement of feeling, any gentleness 
of nature to her husband. Hor was it natural 
that she should. She had never taken the 
trouble to study him before their marriage, and 
since that event the impenetrable coldness of the 
man seemed his dominant characteristic. After 
her word was given, after her honor was pledged, 


194 


A COMMON MAN. 


after she was powerless in his hands, he had 
chosen to heap insults upon her and spurn her 
from him. He had boastingly shown her the 
grossest part of his being, and only the grossest. 
Was it strange, then, that the bitter feeling 
against him should have retained its intensity. 
Again and again was he arraigned before the 
silent tribunal of her thoughts, only to be as 
often condemned. Her own deception, practiced 
solely from motives of love for her parents, was 
trivial in her eyes in comparison with that of 
her husband, and her fault appeared less griev- 
ous when she reflected that its discovery could 
have wreaked but little mental sorrow on one 
whose nature was so coarse. 

While she was deeply grateful for his ex- 
pressed determination to live apart from her, 
the gratitude was not felt toward him. What 
gratitude could she feel toward that man who 
hated her so bitterly that he scorned her for a 
companion, and yet had coveted her for the 
double purpose of profiting by her social position 
and gratifying his hatred in her humiliation? 
She was humbled, deeply humbled, but fiercely 
determined that he should never dream of her 
humiliation. She felt that her best weapon was 
the assumption of indifference. She could have 
wounded him and angered him at every turn, 
but he would have thought that it was because 


A COMMON MAN. 


195 


she was herself angry and stooped to retaliation. 
She would have him think that the world was 
as bright for her as before ; that the pursuit of 
every empty pleasure was as keen, as joyous; 
that his opinion of her was too valueless to cloud 
one hour of her life ; that his masterstroke had 
failed of its purpose and fallen wide of the mark. 

One early summer afternoon she was alone in 
the parlor, seated at the piano, and humming 
over a popular air from the latest opera, when 
her husband entered the room with gloves and 
hat in hand. She stopped singing at once and 
turned toward him questioningly. “The landau 
is at the door,” he said. “Are you going driv- 
ing this evening?” 

“No, I don’t care about going this evening,” 
she answered; then added, “I will go, if you 
wish me to.” 

“I don’t wish you to,” he said, more shortly 
than was his wont, as he turned from the room 
and entered the library. She heard the rubbing 
of a match against the sandpaper and knew that 
he was lighting a cigar. She thought it prob- 
able that he had bitten off the end of it angrily 
beca,use of her indifference, and there was a 
vague sense of satisfaction in the reflection; 
then the front door opened and shut, and she 
heard his step on the flagging. A tiny wreath 
of blue smoke curled in at the open window. 


196 


A COMMON MAN. 


and, turning her fair head slightly, she glanced 
out. She saw her husband draw his foot back 
abruptly just as he was about to place it on a 
lower step ; then he stooped down and picked up 
something from the stone, and, looking more 
closely, she discerned a caterpillar on his broad 
palm. She discerned more than that ; for, as he 
bent his gaze upon the worm, she saw a protect- 
ing tenderness in his eyes that was a revelation 
to her. He had not noticed her, and walked 
around to the other side of the carriage, where 
he laid it unharmed upon the grass. 

And he had done this — her husband; the man 
who had wounded her; the stern man whom 
she had deemed incapable of tenderness. It was 
the first glimpse that she had had of his better 
nature; she might arraign him again and again 
before the silent tribunal where she had so often 
passed judgment upon him, but never again 
without a pleader in his cause in the memory of 
that gentle act. Yet — yet — if he had only been 
tender with her. 

There had been a tacit understanding between 
them that neither would wait dinner for the 
other, but that evening, for the first time, Gene- 
vieve waited for her husband. The butler an- 
nounced the meal as usual at seven o’clock, but 
she waited in the gathering twilight for the 
sound of the carriage wheels. When half-past 


A COMMON MAN. 


197 


seven came she went in to dinner alone, and had 
nearly finished the meal when her husband re- 
turned. The drive could not have been a pleas- 
ant one, for his brow wore its accustomed gloom. 
He bestowed a surprised glance on his wife, and 
then looked at the clock significantly. 

“Have you been out?” he asked. 

“No,” she answered; “I was not hungry, and 
I was reading when dinner was announced, so I 
didn’t come down till half-past seven.” 

He looked at her keenly, and said, sarcasti- 
cally : “That is very well. I actually thought it 
possible that you might have been waiting for 
me. I don’t want you ever to do that under any 
circumstances.” 

There was scarcely a word spoken between 
them after thaT until the bell rang, and Mrs. 
Heighdecker, Miss Inosent and Mr. Chatterton 
were announced. Genevieve had never wel- 
comed their coming more warmly, 

Mr. Seyton and Mr. Foxhall, a recent acquaint- 
ance from New York, dropped in a little later 
and found their young hostess as smiling and 
gay as usual. She seemed to be in her element. 
There were strolls about the garden, and music, 
and refreshments later on, and gossip without 
end. Little Miss Inosent declared, enthusiasti- 
cally, that Mrs. Greystone was the most brilliant 
woman she had ever seen, and asked John, point- 


198 


A COMMON MAN. 


blank, how he ever managed to win her. Mr. 
Chatterton looked amused, and John," speechless 
for an instant, had just begun to stammer out 
an awkward reply, when his wife, with that 
patrician ease that all the wealth of California 
could not have given him, turned toward the 
group and said, laughingly: ‘‘Lily, I married 
him for the express purpose of convincing him 
that I was a paragon, and I haven’t succeeded 
yet; so you need not try.” And she hummed 
the old lines gayly : 

‘‘Needles and pins ; needles and pins ; 

When a man marries, his trouble begins.” 

The evening passed away as a score of even- 
ings had passed before, with wit and laughter, 
and song and wine — that is, mint juleps; for 
Mrs. Greystoue was famous for her mint juleps, 
as her mother had been before her. The eyes of 
little Miss Inosent brightened as she sipped hers. 
“How do you make a mint julep, Mrs. Grey- 
stone?” she asked. 

“Well, I’ll give you the recipe,” replied the 
fair hostess. “First, you fill a goblet half full 
of cracked ice and sprinkle it well with sugar; 
then you put in some fresh mint and crush it 
lightly; fill the goblet with bourbon and stir the 
julep well with a silver spoon.” 


A COMMON MAN. 


199 


“But you have left out just one thing,” said 
Mr. Chatterton, from the cushions of his easy- 
chair. “If the silver spoon has a crest on it, 
why, so much the better.” 

John put his glass down noisily, and gave one 
quick, angry glance at the unconscious Chatter- 
ton, who blandly asked Mrs. Greystone for one 
more song. 

After the song Mrs. Heighdecker declared that 
it was time to go, and presently the stout eld 
lady was assisted out to her carriage. As it 
rolled away the occupants looked back and waved 
their handkerchiefs gayly toward the host and 
hostess standing in the lighted doorway. Gene- 
vieve lingered a few moments after the vehicle 
had disappeared, and when she turned to go in 
John had already gone, and the library door 
was closed as she passed it on her way upstairs. 
An hour later, when the lights had been extin- 
guished and the house was all still, the door was 
opened and a gloomy man emerged and passed 
out into the grounds adjoining the house, where 
his long, restless strides could be heard far into 
the sleepless night. He looked up at the stars 
and wandered back again in fancy to the old 
mining days on the coast, to the days when he 
had sought gold in the hills while the sun lasted, 
and knowledge in the lore of Alfred West, by 
the lonely camp-fire, always with the one object; 


200 


A COMMON MAN. 


only the one object that made life so full. And 
now — he stopped abruptly and clinched his hand 
as he muttered under his breath: “Now I have 
won all, I have bought everything I want; if 
there was anything more that I wanted I could 
buy it.” 


CHAPTER III. 

POLITICS AND SOCIETY. 

Two years had passed since the night on 
which John Greystone discovered the Little 
Fred Gold Mine. The spell of money had 
proved as potent as the veriest Mammon- wor- 
shiper could have prophesied. He had fast 
horses, a magnificent dwelling, an art gallery 
that was unrivaled in the western country, a 
wife beautiful enough to excito the envy of half 
the women who saw her, an entree to the ultra- 
fashionable set and a score of toadies within its 
inner circle; even his last pet project, the co- 
operative plan, promised to be a splendid suc- 
cess, and yet — John Greystone was not happy. 
He grew moodier, more restless every day, and 
lost interest in those pursuits from which he had 
derived the most pleasure a few months before. 
He had taken to horseback riding at one time, 
and as he had paid a fabulous sum for the gaited 


A COMMON MAN. 


201 


animal that he rode, he derived considerable 
pleasure from the knowledge that he always at- 
tracted attention in his rides on the boulevard. 
There were a score of men in Genevieve’s set 
who rode, and there was an undeniable gratifi- 
cation to him in the thought that of them all 
none bestrode so fine an animal as his handsome 
Arabian. Quite naturally he ascribed the fre- 
quent glances tha,t were bent upon him to the 
envious admiration of those whom he passed on 
his rides. Once he thought that he surprised a 
derisive smile on the faces of Chatterton and 
Seyton. But, though the two equestrians named 
held very erect, he knew well enough that the 
cobs on which they were mounted could have 
been bought for a tenth part of the sum which 
he had paid to the former owner of Selim ; and 
with this clinching argument in mind, it is 
small wonder that he formed the satisfactory 
conclusion that envy had prompted the assumed 
mirth of the gentlemen. Well had it been for 
him that day if he had confined his ride to the 
boulevard, instead of ambling down a by-lane 
that intersected the main road. 

For on the edge of this by-lane were a group 
of boys, who paused, in the midst of an exciting 
game of mumbly-peg, to gaze upon the lone 
horseman. With the memory of that derisive 
smile still in mind, John Greystone rode slowly 


202 


A COMMON MAN. 


by, and, as he passed them, the biggest boy sang 
out, sharp and clear: “Say, mister, what’s the 
matter with yer elbows?” Then a younger and 
shriller voice shouted: “Why don’t yer let yer 
stirrups down, mister?” And the big boy, not 
to be outdone in criticism, yelled after him as a 
last taunt: “Get off that horse an’ lem me show 
you how to ride once.” John felt relieved when 
he had ridden out of ear-shot of those independ- 
ent young critics, and then, with the memory 
of those derisive smiles of Chatterton and Seyton 
still uppermost in his thoughts, he took note of 
the position of his elbows and the length of his 
stirrups. The next afternoon he rode out in the 
landau with his fair wife at his side and with 
his eyes bent upon every equestrian that they 
passed. Alas, of them all, there was not one 
whose elbows were held horizontally; not one 
whose stirrups were so abominably short as his 
had been. No wonder they had looked at him 
and smiled at him. He understood it readily 
enough now, and Selim was sold within a week. 
It was a little thing, but it added fuel to his 
hatred of that well-bred class who could ride and 
dance gracefully, and bow and smile derisively 
with the same well-bred grace. It was a little 
thing, but he wondered how many of them had 
noticed how abominably he rode, whether they 
had discussed it or not, and whether Mrs. 


A COMMON MAN. 


203 


Heighdecker had heard of it; and, worse than 
all, he pictured his wife laughing scornfully at 
him as he had ridden out of the gate with arms 
akimbo again and again. 

He felt a lack of interest in social pleasures, 
too. Somehow or another he began to feel that 
he did not fit in well with the others, and that 
the considerable sums indirectly invested in 
society paid the least returns of any of his 
numerous investments. He wondered at times 
whether his wife and Mrs. Heighdecker and 
Miss Inosent and all those others really enjoyed 
the endless whirl as much as they appeared to. 
He knew that he did not himself, and he felt 
guilty when he refiected over the numerous 
times that he had assumed a pleasure he did not 
feel merely because of the opinion of the people 
he had schooled himself to despise. Of course, 
society had its pleasures. There was an un- 
doubted gratification that night at the charity 
ball, in the knowledge that he, John Greystone, 
was its very chiefest patron, and there were 
other occasions when he garnered some return 
for bis expenditures; but, on the whole, “so- 
ciety” began to appear very empty to him, and 
he rather looked clown upon himself for his fre- 
quent sacrifices in its gilded temples. There 
was, really, only one thing left to the rich man 
from which he derived any genuine pleasure, 


204 


A COMMON MAN. 


and that was the great co-operative plan that he 
had instituted at the iron-works. But now that 
its success had become a certainty; now that 
less of his time and personal supervision was 
required at the works, there were hours that 
hung heavy on his hands — aye, and on his heart 
as well. He was oppressed with a sense of un- 
utterable loneliness. He onl}^, of all men whom 
he knew, was without companionship. There 
was no living creature in whose veins flowed 
blood kindred to his own, and he sought vainly 
for the face of a friend among the numerous 
acquaintances that he had formed. For all its 
splendor, there was less comfort in his palace 
than in the humblest home of his humblest iron- 
worker, and among all that brood of toilers there 
was not one to whom companionship was denied. 

It was such a loneliness as has steeped souls 
in sin, and from which energy has fled terror- 
stricken, achieving greatness in its flight. And 
it was at this time that John Greystone’s energy 
found an object of concentration. 

It was at a dinnerparty at Mrs. Heighdecker’s 
that the object presented itself. It is needless 
to say that the viands were the choicest, the 
wines excellent, and the appointments generally 
superb. The silver service, so old that the mon- 
ogram was worn from half the pieces, had been 
in the family a century. 


A COMMON MAN. 


205 


“Do you know that husks would taste good 
eaten from such an heir-loom?” said Mr. Sey- 
ton, delicately poising the spoon that had ex- 
cited his comment. 

“Very well, I shall borrow the spoons from 
Mrs. Heighdecker, and you shall have a dish of 
husks the next time you call on me,” said Mrs. 
Greystone, mischievously. “How do you pre- 
fer them?” 

“Prepared by your own fair hands,” was the 
gallant response. 

“This spoon has ‘De Courcey’ on it,” said 
John, indicating the letters with the end of a 
broad finger. “Was that your father’s name, 
Mrs. Heighdecker?” 

“Oh, no; that was my great-grandfather’s 
name,” said the old lady, as pleasantly as 
though she were entirely oblivious of the quick 
glance exchanged between Seyton and Chat- 
terton, or the quicker fiush on the cheek of 
Genevieve. 

“You must be related to Ernest de Courcey, 
are you not?” asked Mr. Seyton. 

“Yes, we are related in some way— about 
forty-second cousins, I think,” said Mrs. Heigh- 
decker. 

“You know his father was a Virginian,” 
Mr. Seyton remarked, after a dainty sip of 
champagne. 


20G 


A COMMON MAN. 


“Oh, yes; and that branch of my family were 
Virginians, too. That is what we base our re- 
lationship on. You know ail F.F.V. ’s are 
related in Virginia.” 

“Have you heard that He Courcey is going to 
run for Congress in November?” asked Mr. 
Kavanagh, a gentleman who was generally well 
informed on political subjects, having made 
them a study ever since a dashing Creole beauty 
from New Orleans (who had made men a study) 
had told him how much he resembled the great 
Benton. The fact that Benton v/as six feet two, 
a brunette, and very homely, while Leslie Kav- 
anagh was five feet five, a blonde, and quite 
good-looking, had but little weight with the lat- 
ter. He grinned affably, proposed to the beauty 
that evening, and would have married her, if a 
better catch had not presented himself. But 
that casual remark changed the man for all 
time; he read law, studied politics, familiarized 
himself with every detail of the life of Benton, 
and might have gone to Congress if he had not 
over-cultivated the pomposity of manner that has 
usually been ascribed to Missouri’s great senator. 

“Has De Courcey formally announced himself 
as a candidate?” Chatterton asked. 

“Yes, as a candidate for the Democratic nom- 
ination,” replied the student of politics. “He 
told me so himself this morning.” 


A COMMON MAN. 


207 


‘‘Do you think he Avill get it, Mr. Kavanagh?” 
^sked Genevieve, Eentuokian enough to he in- 
terested in the subject. 

“VYell, yes, I think he will,” Mr. Kavanagh 
replied, with his usually important air. “From 
inside information, Mrs. Greystone, I am confi- 
dent that he has the nomination in his hand. He 
would not have announced his candidacy if he had 
not been promised the nomination beforehand.” 

“Do you think he will be elected?” queried 
Mr. Vincent, who had a son whose appointment 
to W est Point he wished to secure. 

“Yes; I don’t think there is any doubt about 
it,” Kavanagh replied. “There is a big manu- 
facturing section in the district, and the labor- 
ing classes are naturally Democratic. Of course, 
we don’t know yet who they’ll put up on the 
other side. There is really a scarcity of the 
right kind of material. The only chance of the 
Republican party is to nominate some man who 
combines wealth, ability and the sympathy of 
the riff-raff.” 

“A rare combination,” quoth Chatterton. 

“It will take money to get the Republican 
nomination,” continued Kavanagh, “and it will 
take ability to reconcile the party platform with 
the interests of the laboring people — so much 
ability that no man could do it who was not of 
them and from them.” 


208 


A COMMON MAN. 


‘‘I am glad that Ernest de Courcey’s prospects 
are so good,” said his forty-second cousin from 
the head of the table. “I believe there are fewer 
gentlemen in politics every year. I remember 
the time when it was exceptional for any man 
other than a gentleman to be elected to 
Congress.” 

“How old is this De Courcey?” asked John 
Greystone. 

“Thirty- three years old,” answered Mr. Kav- 
anagh, whose political studies included even 
such minute details as the ages of local poli- 
ticians. 

“Has he any particular qualifications for the 
position of Congressman?” John asked, gravely. 

“He is just as generous as he can be,” re- 
marked Mrs. Vincent, mentally contemplating 
Master Gaskill Wesley Vincent, Jr., in the full 
regalia of a West Point cadet. 

“He is very handsome,” said Miss Emilie 
Moulton, a tall blonde, who was seated between 
Kavanagh and Mr. Vincent. 

“He must be awfully clever,” said little Miss 
Inosent. “Papa won’t ever have him for a 
partner at whist. He says that his mind is so 
full of important matters that he trumps his 
partner’s trick half the time.” 

A smile went around the table, and Papa Ino- 
sent, who was present, came very near commit- 


A COMMON MAN. 


209 


ting suicide by sulfocation in his efforts to re- 
frain from open laughter at the naiv^e rendition 
of his recent eulogy of the Honorable Ernest de 
Courcey in the role of a whist-player. 

“He belongs to one of the best families in the 
State,” said the hostess, involuntarily elevating 
her head with the remark. 

John, who had listened attentively to the en- 
comiums of the future Congi’essman, turned 
toward Kavanagh with questioning glance, for 
that celebrated encyclopedia of political informa- 
tion had not yet replied to his inquiry relative 
to the especial qualifications of the candidate. 

Thus challenged, Leslie Kavanagh, who had 
diplomatically reserved his answer until the 
others had spoken, gave voice to a portion of his 
store of knowledge. “ I can heartily second 
everything that has been said of He Courcey,” 
he began. “He is very generous” (glancing at 
Mrs. Vincent as carelessly as if he did not know 
the motive that had prompted her compliment); 
“he is certainly handsome” (glancing at the 
fair-haired Emilie, as if her ambition might be 
worn where sleeve was not — on the well-rounded 
arm) ; “he undoubtedly is absent-minded at 
whist” (a glance at Papa Inosent that sent that 
stout gentleman to cover behind his champagne 
glass), “and he does belong to one of our best 
families” (a smile toward the hostess); “but it 


210 


A COMMON MAN. 


is my own humble opinion, after a careful re- 
view of the political situation in this district, 
that all these qualifications combined could not 
secure him the nomination if he were not the 
son of Godfrey de Courcey, who was not only a 
Member of Congress at the time of his death, 
but was one of the most distinguished lawyers 
in the State.’’ 

“What a fine old gentleman he was,” ex- 
claimed Papa Inosent, retrospectively. 

“A thorough aristocrat; a gentleman of the 
old school,” echoed Lebuni Mason, a studiously 
polite bachelor of forty winters, who had paid 
flowery compliments to Miss Lily Inosent, after 
having examined the city tax books with a view 
of becoming better acquainted with the financial 
standing of her indulgent papa. 

“He was an aristocrat,” Kavanagh assented, 
“but he enjoyed his prominence in the palmy 
days of the aristocracy, when Congressmen were 
gentlemen, as Mrs. Heighdecker has just in- 
formed us. The trouble is that Ernest is as 
much of an aristocrat at heart as even his father 
was, and it is possible that it may injure his 
prospects.” 

“How can the fact of his being a gentleman 
injure his prospects, Mr. Kavanagh?” queried 
Miss Emilie Moulton. 

“Through the prejudice of the masses. I do 


A COMMON MAN. 


211 


not say that it will injure him, only that it may. 
There is a blacksmith, at present a member of 
the city council, who probably has more influ- 
ence with the laboring classes than any other 
one man in the district. Now, Nailor — his 
name is Nailor — claims to be a Democrat, but 
he is one of those rare plebeians who is proud of 
his plebeianism, and if he should become prej- 
udiced against De Courcey on account of his 
social position, or if the Republican candidate 
should make it worth Nailor’s while to prejudice 
the riff-raff against him, it would make his elec- 
tion anything but an easy matter. Of course, I 
do not anticipate defection on Nailor’s part. I 
only mention it as a possibility, to illustrate to 
you how an attribute that was of decided advan- 
tage in the political arena twenty years ago is of 
very doubtful advantage at the present time.” 

Mr. Kavanagh, having fairly enlightened the 
minds of those about him on the momentous 
political subject, resumed his chicken salad with 
as much modesty as his pomposity would permit. 

The brief lull that followed was broken by 
the hostess : “ Have you heard Doctor Bartell 
preach?” she asked of Mr. Vincent, who af- 
fected religion, as he did side whiskers and 
lavender gloves, because he thought it was be- 
coming. 

“You mean the new minister? No, I have 


212 


A COMMON MAN. 


not heard him. I was unfortunate enough to 
miss his first sermon last Sunday.” 

dit that he is young and handsome and 
a bachelor,” said Genevieve; “and that he is 
going to put a stop to scandal, round dances and 
flirtations.” 

“Query— Can he do it?” said Mr. Chatterton, 
glancing at the splendid figure of the fair Emilie. 
“Do you think he will make a convert of you, 
Miss Moulton?” 

“If he is very handsome, he might induce me 
to forswear gossip and flirting. I don’t care 
much for gossip, and, you know, I can’t flirt” 
(with a downward droop of the darkened lashes), 
“but I draw the line at dancing. I would rather 
waltz than do anything else in the world.” 

“Well, you will have a long time to reconsider 
your decision,” said Chatterton. “He is going 
to make all the matrons stop dancing before he 
begins on the maids. What do you think of 
that, Mrs. Grej^stone?” 

“ ^Honi soit qui mal y pense,^ ” said Gene- 
vieve, with a gleam in the brown eyes. “I don’t 
see the least harm in waltzing, and until I do I 
have no intention of giving it up. If it were 
only leap year, I should ask the Rev. Doctor 
Bartell for the pleasure of a turn or two the first 
opportunity.” 

“You actually grow worse as you grow older, 


A COMMON MAN. 


213 


my dear,” said Mrs. Heighdecker, laughingly, 
for the old lady herself had certainly not grown 
any better with the many sunny years that had 
passed over her head. “You really need reform- 
ing, and I am going to take you with me to hear 
Doctor Bartell next Sunday.” 

“He is to discourse on love marriages, and it 
will be in the nature of a penance for your early 
mutiny,” quoth Chatterton. 

There was another brief lull in the conversa- 
tion; then the hostess rose, and presently the 
gentlemen were left alone over their wine and 
cigars. When they resumed their seats, John 
took a chair next to Kavanagh, and they were 
soon so deeply interested in their own conversa- 
tion that the others had become almost oblivious 
of their presence. All at once J ohn’s attention 
was attracted by a few careless words uttered by 
Seyton about round dancing, and the delightful 
opportunity it afforded for embracing the fair 
sex. “It just illustrates the force of custom,” 
he concluded. “I haven’t a doubt that if it was 
fashionable for women to kiss their partners 
during the dance they would do it just as grace- 
fully as they surrender their waists to our keep- 
ing now. Long may they dance— matrons and 
maids.” 

During the drive home that evening John was 
less taciturn than was his wont, and Genevieve 


214 


A COMMON MAN. 


noticed the faint glimmer of a smile about the 
firm lips as they passed under the light of a 
street lamp. “I told Mrs. Inosent this evening 
that we would be at her party next Wednes- 
daj”,” she remarked. “I believe you said that 
you wanted to go. ’ ’ 

“Yes; but I have changed my mind.” 

“You have no objection to my going?” 

“None at all, if you don’t dance,” he said. 

“If I do-n’t dance?” she repeated. “Why, it 
is a dancing parly. I promised Mr. Seyton the 
first waltz this evening. You have never ob- 
jected to my dancing before, and papa and 
mamma never did either. I think they know 
what is comme il faut^ and what is not.” 

“I don’t understand your French words,” said 
John, coldly. “I do object to your dancing 
round dances. I forbid it.” 

Genevieve did not reply, but she felt her 
temples throb, and she beat the cushion nerv- 
ously with her gloved hand. And when they 
reached home at last, and he offered to assist 
her from the carriage, she turned her face from 
him haughtily, and passed up the broad stairs 
without a word. 


A COMMON MAN. 


215 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE people’s candidate. 

Two weeks after the dinner party at Mrs. 
Heighdecker’s, John Greystone announced him- 
self as a candidate for Congress from the St. 
Louis district, on the regular Republican ticket. 
There had been but little trouble in winning the 
support of the practical politicians who controlled 
the nominating convention. There had been no 
dearth of aspirants for the nomination, but none 
of them possessed the wealth of the new-comer, 
and shrewd politicians had predicted the cer- 
tainty of Ernest de Courcey’s election before the 
millionaire entered the race. Even with the 
wealth that it was supposed John Greystone 
would spend lavishly, the party leaders were 
generally of the opinion that his fight would be 
a losing one, which lessened the difficulty in 
making adherents out of his more formidable 
rivals before the convention. 

But the labor reformer’s earnest efforts for co- 
operation had not fallen upon sterile soil, and the 
wild enthusiasm that his name created at the 
mass-meeting held by the “Order of United 
Workingmen,” the evening after the nomina- 
tion, made him a formidable rival of De Courcey 
at the start. As for Kavanagh, that animated 


216 


A COMMON MAN. 


encyclopedia of political information had grasped 
the opportunity of his life-time, and had gone 
over at once to swell the Republican ranks. The 
skeptic who would criticise his sudden defection 
should have heard his pompous declaration to 
Mr. Vincent when buttonholed by that disinter- 
ested gentleman a few days after the Republican 
convention. 

“You cannot blame me, my dear sir,” he said. 
“You might as readily expect a father to oppose 
his own son as for Leslie Kavanagh to oppose 
John Greystone.” Then, in response to the 
elevation of Mr. Vincent’s eyebrows at the 
paternal position that he had assumed, he con- 
tinued : “Why, my dear sir, the candidate is my 
own creation. He never would have run if it 
had not been for me. I suggested it, I urged it, 
I demanded it in the interest of my fellow- 
citizens.” 

“Do you think he will be elected?” asked the 
gentleman with a son. 

“Do I think it?” Kavanagh smiled benignly. 
“I am perfectl}^ confident of it, sir.” 

“Well! well! You do seem confident of it. 
And I believe he is a good man.” 

“The people believe it, and they will prove 
their belief at the polls, sir.” 

“It will be close, though; close either way,” 
said Mr. Vincent. “Of course I have always 


A COMMON MAN. 


217 


voted with the Democratic party heretofore, but 
you have, too, for that matter, Leslie. There 
are new planks in the platforms, too. Times 
change. Issues change. You know I have 
some little influence, and I have not pledged 
myself yet.” He changed his cane from the 
right hand to the left as easily as if it had been 
his political opinion. “Oh, by the way, do you 
know whether Greystone has promised the ap- 
pointment to West Point?” 

“Yes. He promised it last evening, in his 
speech before the United Order of Workingmen 
— to the boy who shall pass the highest competi- 
tive examination.” 

It was a little thing to have offered to the 
sturdy toilers — that their sons should have an 
equal chance with the proudest aristocrats in 
the city for the always coveted appointment to 
the United States Military Academy. It was a 
little thing, but it was “good politics,” as one 
of the bosses had declared at the time, and it 
was worth a thousand votes to John Greystone. 

At the conclusion of the announcement, which 
was all his own, for he had not consulted with 
his political workers on the subject, he said, 
with characteristic earnestness: “Though the 
chances of all will be equal, I hope with all my 
heart that the son of some workman here present 
will will the prize.” 


218 


A COMMON MAN. 


As the days went by, he did his utmost to 
convince the laboring element that he had their 
interest at heart. He knew, and the older poli- 
ticians, who held so many secret conclaves’ be- 
hind the closed doors of his library, knew that 
the district was naturally a Democratic one; 
they knew that the middle classes would, vote 
generally as they had voted, and that their one 
chance of success lay in swaying the thousands 
of voters who made up the laboring classes in 
the great manufacturing city. To the politicians 
it was a fine political maneuver; to John Grey- 
stone it was a great struggle for right. He be- 
lieved himself a Republican from principle. As 
a boy, during the war, with but little knowledge 
of the real grounds of difference between the two 
great parties, he had hated the Democracy be- 
cause he had deemed it the party of slavery, and 
he was ever keenly alive to the sufferings of 
man or beast. Slavery abolished, the intensity 
of his feelings had subsided, and, though he had 
voted the Republican ticket when he had voted 
at all, his busy life and its one engrossing ob- 
ject — Dead Sea fruit now — had crowded out any 
tendency to active partisanship. From the 
lights of his reason he believed that Republican- 
ism was the better party of the two ; but from 
the depths of his heart he believed in the rights 
— aye, and in the wrongs — of the common peo- 


A COMMON MAN. 


219 


pie; above either partj^, above both parties, 
above all other interests he held the interests of 
the common people. He was their champion — 
his birthright was their leadership. Yet he felt 
that if he should fail in the end, if they should 
vote against him after all, he would not blame 
them. As well blame a people who failed to see 
a prophet in the stranger who opened not their 
eyes. In the memory of his own dense igno- 
rance, he felt only pity for the ignorance of his 
people, and had no heart for blame. 

The excitement of the contest was a perfect 
boon to him, and his energy, his unflagging in- 
terest in every detail of the campaign, excited 
the surprise of the politicians^ who had looked 
forward to having the manipulation of affairs 
entirely in their own hands. They had naturally 
supposed, that a man of Greystone’s wealth would 
be glad to shirk the worry that the active man- 
agement of the campaign would entail. But 
they were mistaken. He held the reins from 
the start, and the purse strings, and, though he 
spent money freely, there was no questionable 
transactions to which he was a party, not one 
which he would have hidden from the world. 
Handbills, banners, advertisements of every 
kind and description, endless torch-light proces- 
sions, daily barbecues and nightly banquets were 
paid for without a murmur, but buying of votes, 


^20 A COMMON MAN. 

by any more direct method than a succulent ap- 
peal to the inner man of the voter, there was 
none. 

A covert suggestion as to the purchase of one 
of De Courcey’s henchmen, who controlled some 
three or four hundred votes, was met with a 
stern rebuke by the millionaire. His attitude 
was due not more to his plain allegiance to the 
right than to a personal pride in his untainted 
integrity. In his bitterness against the class 
into which he had married, and by many mem- 
bers of which he felt himself tolerated only, 
there was one point on which he knew that not 
the proudest could take precedence of him, and 
that was his honesty. He had enjoyed keenly 
Kavanagh’s amusing account of the covert 
treachery of the sleek Vincent, who had boasted 
of his family connections for twenty years; and 
there was a grim satisfaction in the knowledge 
that Hoel Fitzhugh, the supposed pink of chiv- 
alry, the learned exponent of blood and lineage, 
the father of Genevieve, was a humbug, desti- 
tute of honor. 

During the busy weeks that followed the an- 
nouncement of his candidacy, Genevieve had 
seen less of her husband than at any period of 
their married life. He was up and away early 
in the mornings, and seldom returned home 
until late at night. If he did, it was only to 


A COMMON MAN. 


221 


closet himself in the library with his campaign 
associates. On the rare occasions when they 
came together he was even more reticent than 
usual, and apparently absorbed in the Congres- 
sional struggle. That she occupied a secondary 
position in his thoughts to his Congressional 
aspirations, she never doubted, and she some- 
times wondered, wearily, if he had not tired of 
his purchase of her. He had given up all social 
pleasures temporarily, and when she went out to 
evening entertainments, it was generally with 
Mrs. Heighdecker. That frivolous old lady, 
strange to say, was a stanch admirer of John 
Greystone, and had sung his praises into every 
ear that would listen since the first hour of his 
candidacy. 

“I’m glad I am not a man, my dear,” she 
would say, “for if I were, I would be sorely 
tempted to vote against my own blood. De 
Courcey is a sort of forty-second cousin of mine, 
you know.” 

To her, and her onlj-, in the strictest confi- 
dence, Genevieve had confided the fiat against 
her dancing, in the early flush of her indignation. 
The old lady had not concealed her surprise at 
the information, but she proved a wise counselor. 

“What would you do?” Genevieve had asked 
in conclusion, two angry red spots burning in 
her cheeks. 


222 


A COMMON MAN. 


“Why, my dear, I would not dance,’’ said 
Mrs. Heighdecker. “Little differences will 
come up even in love matches, but you must not 
allow them to remain differences. John has 
heard some remarks about waltzing, and he has 
taken a prejudice against it. W'ell, dear, humor 
the prejudice. You have everything else you 
want, and, though I acknowledge that his preju- 
dice is ridiculous, it would be foolish to oppose 
it. Try and interest yourself in his interests. 
I am a silly old woman who say it, but you can- 
not be thoroughly happy unless you do. ’ ’ 

Genevieve took the words to heart, and re- 
frained from round dancing. But how could 
she foster that interest in her husband that her 
mentor advised? If the latter had only known 
all ! Even if she could bring herself to care for 
him, would it be wise to do so with the knowl- 
edge that she was utterly indifferent to him; 
with the bitter memory of that first night; with 
the humiliating thought that he despised her? 
Opposed to her youthful beauty, her matchless 
voice, all her woman’s capability of forgiving 
and loving, was the echo and re-echo of his 
scathing denunciation on that night. She be- 
lieved at times that he hated her. She knew 
that che had hated him, and that she did not 
now — that the feeling of hatred had. departed 
the day that she had seen the tenderness in his 


A COMMON MAN. 


223 


eyes when he had stooped to rescue the cater- 
pillar. 

The prospective proposal of the West Point 
cadetship was not the only unexpected maneuver 
originated by the Republican candidate during 
the short and exciting contest in which he was 
one of the central figures. The campaign had 
been in progress some weeks, and both parties 
were straining every nerve for the victory. 
John Greystone had made a score of speeches, 
generally consisting of half-hour harangues, 
plain and to the point, as void of rhetorical 
flourish as was the speaker’s scarred face of 
beauty — speeches in striking contrast with the 
lengthy oratorical flights of the cultured Enrest 
de Courcey. 

Late one night a group of four earnest men 
were gathered about the table in John’s library, 
which had been turned into a bivouac where the 
political generals held frequent rendezvous. 
Social prestige was of small moment at these 
meetings, where Pat Cleary, a favorite leader 
of the sons of Erin; Heinrich Unterburger, the 
local boss of the German contingent; the politi- 
cal encyclopedia, known in polite circles as Mr. 
Leslie Kavanagh, and John Greystone formu- 
lated and discussed the most important plans of 
the campaigns. The two practical politicians 
had presented the results of a preliminary can- 


224 


A COMMON MAN. 


vass of the voters in several close precincts, 
when John’s attention was attracted by a half- 
page portrait of Ernest de Courcey in the Daily 
Ledger^ a newspaper favorable to the opposition. 
An idea suddenly occurred to him. “Leslie,” 
he said, turning toward his factotum, “don’t 
you think I could buy a page in the Ledger to 
print my photograph on?” he asked. 

“In the queried the encyclopedia, 

his incredulous glance reflected on the faces of 
his companions. 

“Yes, to be sure, in the Ledger,” asserted 
Greystone. “Why not?” 

“It would be poor politics for the Ledger,” 
said Cleary, bluntly. 

“They might just as well turn in and support 
you,” said the Teuton. 

“JSTot at ail. There must be advertising col- 
umns for sale in the Ledger, and I propose to 
buy some of them.” 

“To plant our flag inside the enemy’s wall!” 
exclaimed Kavanagh, bursting into metaphor 
over the audacious proposition. 

“It would not be practicable,” remarked 
Cleary. 

“They couldn’t afford to do it for five thou- 
sand dollars,” said Unterburger. 

“Offer them ten thousand, then,” said John. 

Ten thousand dollars! It was the entire two 


A COMMON MAN. 


225 


years’ salary of a Congressman. Cleary and 
Unterburger were silent, but Kavanagh inflated 
his chest and his eyes twinkled. “They’ll do it 
for that, I know,” he said. “They need money. 
Flicker told me so, confidentially, a month ago. 
Leave it to Kavanagh, and he’ll fix it for you.” 

And he did. On the morrow, the fateful elec- 
tion day, the Ledger made its appearance with 
a column editorial devoted to the remarkable 
merits of the regular Democratic nominee for 
Congress, but on the last page of that partisan 
journal was a life-like portrait of John Grey- 
stone, and under it the legend: “The People’s 
Champion.” The novel audacity of the adroit 
maneuver tickled the populace. It changed 
scores of votes and sold thousands of papers. 
Cleary and Unterburger scattered the copies 
broadcast among the voters, and the Blazer — a 
fiery Democratic sheet— got out an extra edition 
declaring that the Ledger had come out squarely 
ill support of the Republican candidate. Of 
course there was a libel suit afterward, but 
what of that? John Grey stone was elected by 
one hundred and twenty-seven votes. 

The polls closed at sundown, but the election 
was a close one, and it was late that night be- 
fore the result was definitely known at campaign 
headquarters. It was later still when he arrived 
home and dismissed his hackman at the front 


226 


A COMMON MAN. 


gate. Himself unnoticed in the darkness, he saw 
a carriage emerge from the gateway, and among 
the several occupants he recognized Mrs. Heigh- 
decker and Miss Inosent. Framed in the door- 
way, he could see his wife, a fair picture, with 
a smile on her face ; and a gentleman who had 
just bidden her good-by he recognized as Seyton. 
The latter had reiterated to her that her husband 
would be in the next Congress, and she had 
smiled at solne courteous compliment that he 
had paid on her own adaptability for the ga}^ 
social life of the capital. But how was John 
Greystone to know that? How was the lonely 
man — who found his wife happiest in his ab- 
sence, apparently careless of all save her social 
pleasures on the very eve of his triumph or de- 
feat — to know that the glad smile with which 
she welcomed him was one of heartfelt congrat- 
ulation. How was he to interpret the v/istful 
silence, the trembling of the sensitive lips that 
followed his short remark that “the details 
would be in all the papers to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

A THANKSGIVING DINNER. 

November had come again. Another year 
had passed over the wedded life of John Grey- 


A COMMON MAN. 


227 


stone and Genevieve Fitzhiigh, and the papers 
had duly announced the early departure of the 
Congressman-elect for the national capital. 

The twelve long months had not changed the 
relations between husband and wife. Reticent, 
austere, implacable, John Greystone trod his own 
thorny path alone. He gave less time to social 
pleasure than before his election, and was fain 
to acknowledge the unadaptability of his tastes 
and disposition to the gay world of fashion in 
which he had once wished to shine. Wealth 
could open its doors — he had proved that — but 
he was forced to acknowledge, doggedly, that it 
could not create the capacity for enjoyment. It 
fell short there, as weak as poverty. Forced at 
last on his own resources, he turned his active 
mind to the world of books, and, alone in his 
study, pored over them until late into the night. 

As for Genevieve, wearied with her empty 
life and sated with its pleasures, she had, in 
very desperation, tried to follow the advice of 
Mrs. Heighdecker and interest herself in the 
interests of her husband. But her efforts were 
futile, and her timid advances were repulsed by 
the stony imperturbability of his demeanor. 
Yet beneath his austerity she had caught brief 
glimpses of kindness; never for herself — there 
seemed not one spark of tenderness in his nature 
for her — but for others. She had been ill once 


228 


A COMMON MAN. 


for several weeks, but, though she had every 
luxury and attention that could be secured, he 
never so much as sent a message to her during 
all the days that she lay upon her bed of pain. 
And yet she knew that he had visited sick-beds 
among his operatives and had held the hand of 
Jim Stubbs’ little boy when he died. When she 
went downstairs again she had tried to sing one 
of his old songs, and, somehow^ for she was 
weak, the tears would come, and her voice broke 
down — bub he only left the room. 

With her own people things had not gone 
well. The fabulous coal mines had proved the 
veriest delusion, and Judge Fitzhugh, as was 
natural to him, had frittered away most of the 
competence that he had received from John. She 
had an idea that the boys were maintained at 
college by John, though he had not spoken 
of it. 

Before the world, before her husband, except 
on the few occasions of the humiliating ad vances 
that he had repulsed, Genevieve was always the 
same indifferent woman. Beautiful, haughty, 
hardened— almost imperceptibly in the eyes of 
others, irretrievably in her own eyes— she played 
her part, wishing at one time that she could hate 
her husband, striving at another toward indif- 
ference ; regretting always— with the despair 
that painted every coming year more darkly — 


A COMMON MAN. 


229 


the monstrous wrong that she had inflicted upon 
them both. 

It was Thanksgiving day, the evening before 
the departure of John Groystone for Washing- 
ton. His arrangements for going were com- 
pleted. The personal supervision of “The Great 
Western Iron Works” was to be left to his effi- 
cient foreman, Jim Stubbs. An elaborate es- 
tablishment had already been provided in Wash- 
ington, and the St. Louis mansion was to be 
closed the following week, when Mrs. Greystone 
expected to join him. He had donated a Thanks- 
giving dinner to his numerous employes, and 
had promised to deliver a farewell speech to 
them in the town hall after the banquet. Gene- 
vieve knew all this because she had read it in 
the Blazer. And her own Thanksgiving dinner 
was to be eaten alone; not necessarily, for she 
had refused more than one invitation to dine out 
— but then she had only learned that morning 
that John would be absent from home. 

She had never heard him deliver a speech, and 
she found herself wondering vaguely what he 
would say to the thousand grimy men that she 
had seen about the furnaces in her visits to 
Irontown. She glanced at the newspaper again 
and saw that it was to be a non-political speech. 
She became possessed of a wild desire to hear 
the speech — whether prompted by a shrinking 


230 


A COMMON MAN. 


from her own loueliness, or the natural tendency 
of wearied thoughts to a novelty, or some other 
indefinable cause, she did not attempt to dis- 
cover. The impulse was strong upon her, and 
she gave way to it. She ordered the carriage, 
and, hastily arraying herself in the most sub- 
dued dress in her wardrobe, she veiled her face 
heavily, and was soon on her wa}^ to Irontown. 
She passed the town hall, where she saw a crowd 
of rough-looking men about the entrance and 
several women in cheap Sunday attire among 
them. A short distance beyond she stopped the 
vehicle, and, murmuring something about hav- 
ing to see a sick woman, she directed the coach- 
man to wait until her return, and retraced her 
way toward the hall. She felt guilty enough, 
and dared not think of the possibility of meet- 
ing her husband. She was glad there would be 
women present — she had not thought of that be- 
fore. She was confident that John would not 
recognize her veiled face among the crowd where 
he could have no expectation of seeing it, and 
thought that she would just stand near the door 
a few minutes in the darkest corner she could 
find, and then hasten back to her carriage and 
home. Passing through the crowd at the en- 
trance without exciting any special notice, she 
made her way to a position deep in the shade 
behind a wooden pillar that supported a gallery 


A COMMON MAN. 231 

at one end of the hall. She felt herself trem- 
bling at the novelty of her position, and was 
fearful that she might have attracted attention 
toward herself; but, no; thanks to the brown 
veil and the interest of the audience, she re- 
mained. unnoticed. She recognized something 
familiar in the clear, earnest tones that reached 
her ears, and, glancing timidly from behind the 
pillar, she could see John; one hand deep in his 
trousers pocket, the other emphasizing his re- 
marks with varied gesticulation. His straight, 
unruly hair was tossed and rumpled, his coat- 
sleeves were pulled away from the thick wrists 
and broad red hands, and his cravat was all 
awry. It was some minutes before she could 
catch the drift of his remarks, which at first 
seemed like a confused jumble of words relating 
to workmen’s rights, the tariff, co-operative 
labor and kindred subjects that she knew noth- 
ing about. Then the words and sentences as- 
sumed more definite form, and she knew that he 
was speaking not only to, but for the common 
herd around her. His force, his eloquence, 
surprised her. There were occasional gram- 
matical errors, there were inelegant Western- 
isms, but she did not observe them. She had 
seen him awkwardly pause, in his own parlors, 
to find words to express his meaning, and his 
ready use of effective language now was a reve- 


232 


A COMMON MAN. 


lation to her. She felt her pulses thrill at the 
frequent cheers that interrupted him. One 
broad-shouldered, thick-necked fellow shouted, 
“Hear! Hear!” after all others had ceased, 
and another man, anxious to hear the remarks 
of the speaker, admonished him to silence, sa}^- 
ing, “Sh! iSTailor.” 

The name was familiar to her, and she looked 
at the man curiously, trying to place him in 
her thoughts. Mrs. Heighdecker’s dinner party 
suddenly appeared before her mental vision. It 
must be the blacksmith, Hailor, the Democratic 
councilman Kavanagh had spoken of that even- 
ing. Democrat or Republican, he was cheering 
for her husband now. Again she directed her 
attention to the words of the latter. 

“As I said in my speech of acceptance before 
the nominating convention, as I have said re- 
peatedly since then, I say now, that in the House 
of Representatives I shall vote for every meas- 
ure that I believe beneficial to the laboring man, 
and as often as the Republican party votes 
against such a measure just so often shall I vote 
against the Republican party. And to this I do 
solemnly pledge myself. But this was to be, 
not a political, but a farewell speech. When I 
leave St. Louis to-morrow I will leave behind 
me— though but temporarily— the dearest object 
that my life holds, in the co-operative system 


A COMMON MAN. 


233 


that I have organized among you, and the many 
advantages of which I have but just now shown. 
On this Thanksgiving day there is nothing for 
which I feel so thankful as the success of this 
co-operative system. Some of you may smile at 
this assertion. Those of you who do not kno\7 
me may doubt its sincerity. Why? Because 
you ignorantly think that wealth can buy so 
many pleasures greater than the satisfaction I 
have derived from my labors here. My friends, 
the purchasing power of money is limited. [The 
speaker’s voice sank lower with suppressed emo- 
tion.] It cannot buy happiness. Every man of 
you who is well and strong; every man of you 
who has won the love of the woman he calls 
wife; every man of you who can look upon 
your likeness in the face of a little child, has 
more to be thankful for this day than many a 
man who counts his millions. All over yonder 
city, throughout our great country, the rich 
man who thanks God to-day, thanks Him first 
for the self-same blessings that you enjoy — for 
the peace of his domestic hearth, for the love of 
his wife, for the being of his children. And 
whether it be in our own dear land or at the 
uttermost ends of the earth; whether the wretch 
be rich or poor, God help the man who goes 
home this night to a loveless wife and a child- 
less marriage-bed.” 


234 


A COMMON MAN. 


There were many moist eyes in the hall, and 
an impressive silence among the listeners fol- 
lowed his remarks, a silence so profound that, 
when he descended from the platform, forcing a 
smile to mask the sadness that had swept over 
his heart, a choking sob was heard at the end of 
the hall as the door closed upon the figure of a 
veiled woman. 


CHAPTER VI. 

AT THE nation’s CAPITAL. 

There were few Congressmen whose estab- 
lishments at the national capital could have 
rivaled that of the new member from St. Louis, 
and there was not one that boasted so beautiful 
a mistress as Genevieve Greystone. They en- 
tertained as lavishly in their new residence as 
in the old, and Genevieve was at once accorded 
a prominent position in the social world. Kew 
acquaintances, new scenes, the constant spirit of 
gayety that permeated the higher official circles 
of society, stilled for a time the restless craving 
of her nature. But only for a time. Only the 
merest semblance of friendship united the new 
ties that she formed, and, even after a dozen 
parties, her life felt strangely new to her. 

“It is the changing nature of the population,” 


A COMMON MAN. 


235 


said Leslie Kavanagh, who had accepted the 
position of secretary to the new Congressman, 
and ^yho had never felt more in his element. 

“But it has not changed perceptibly in two 
months,” Genevieve protested. 

“N’o; and yet the French Minister has been 
recalled, and my Chinese friend. One-lung 
Hung, has been transferred to Great Britain.” 

“The French Minister was unintelligibly 
charming, and poor little Hung was charmingly 
unintelligible; but that does not explain what I 
mean. I do not think I can define it exactly. 
It is the utter lack of sympathy, sincerity, or 
even interest, felt by any of us for the others. 
I could name twenty people in St. Louis that I 
am sure would remember me, and be really glad 
to see me in ten years from now. I think it 
would be a sacrifice to vanity to claim any such 
friends here.” 

“That is because you would not find them 
here at all in ten years,” said Mr. Kavanagh. 
“Twenty years from now, in St. Louis, you will 
find the same people you left two months ago, 
and forty* years from now you will find their 
children. There will be an entirely new set in 
Washington in ten years, and the people who 
are here now know it. Two years hence half the 
people that we met at the White House crush 
last evening will have drifted back to different 


236 


A COMMON MAN. 


parts of the country and different parts of the 
world, and the people they meet here are re- 
garded by them in the light of traveling ac- 
quaintances. Of course, there is a small minor- 
ity that is here always. Senator Redmund, 
Senator Eagan, General Amar, Secretary Baine 
and Senator Oscoe were here before the war, and 
if I return here in ten years — you know I have 
Congressional aspirations, Mrs. Greystone — I 
should be surprised not to find them all here 
still.” 

“I suppose it is the constant change that 
makes people so different here,” Genevieve as- 
sented, wearily. “So you think of running for 
Congress some day?” 

Leslie Kavanagh straightened himself before 
replying. “Yes, I do not really know why I 
should not,” he said. “I think that if I had 
made the effort I might have been in Congress 
before this. But I believe in the office seeking 
the man. I could not seek an office. ” He rose 
and bowed as a distinguished Senator advanced, 
for the conversation just recorded had taken 
place at a party given by the Secretary of State, 
and Genevieve had promised a promenade to the 
Senator. She had not waltzed since the memor- 
able dinner party at Mrs. Heighdecker’s. 

Later in the evening she found herself again 
at the side of Leslie Kavanagh. Champagne 


,A COMMON MAN. 


237 


had flowed generously during the evening, and 
that gentleman, who had heard that the great 
Benton was addicted to his cups, had imbibed 
rather freely; just enough to have loosened his 
tongue and blinded his discretion. 

“Do 3mu know that I am very fond of your 
husband, Mrs. Grej^stone?” he said, interroga- 
tively. 

“Yes? I have no doubt it is mutual. I have 
heard him speak highly of you,” she replied. 

“That is quite natural, quite natural. I 
helped him materially in the late race. I man- 
aged the campaign for him. I had his picture 
printed in the Ledger. I fixed Nailor. And 
now that it is all over, I sometimes think it 
would have been better for Mr. Greystone if he 
had not come to Washington.” 

“Why?” queried Genevieve. 

“I don’t know that I ought to tell you, but he 
is interesting himself in too many things. He 
got caught in a Kansas land scheme a month 
after he came here, and it cost him all of a hun- 
dred thousand. The election cost him pretty 
heavily — legitimate expenses, of course — and he 
has been dabbling in New York stocks. He has 
gotten in with a New York crowd here, and 
they have turned 'his head. They have some 
big scheme on hand now by which they expect 
to manipulate the stock market and make mil- 


238 


A COMMON MAN. 


lions. They are all richer men than he is, and 
if he goes ^into it at all, he will have to go in 
heavily. He spoke yesterday of mortgaging the 
iron works. He ought not to do it, but he 
laughed at me when I told him so. I thought 
you might be able to influence him, and that is 
the reason I told you. I’m very fond of Mr. 
Greystone.” 

“But what can I do?” asked Genevieve, help- 
lessly. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “You might 
ask him not to mortgage the works, though. 
Men will listen to their wives sometimes when 
they won’t listen to any one else. That is, if 
they have been properly disciplined, you know” 
(with a smile). 

And at that moment the subject of their con- 
versation, who had been detained at a night ses- 
sion of Congress, approached the couple with a 
fellow-member. 

John nervously plunged into a discussion with 
Kav^anagh relative to some business project, and 
Hon. Joshua Stubblefield, who rightly thought 
Mrs. Greystone the most beautiful creature he 
had ever seen, took advantage of the situation 
and marched off with her in triumph. 

An hour later she and her husband, on their 
way home, were sitting silently side by side in 
the carriage. Intervals of silence were frequent 


A COMMON MAN. 


239 


between them. Generally, when they were alone 
together, John answered only in monosyllables, 
and the burden of conversation fell upon the 
tactful society woman. Often she had borne it 
merely because she thought it well-bred ; of late, 
because she dreaded that in those long silences 
the stern man might drift further beyond her 
reach; and her opportunities were so few, even 
for interesting him, that she dared not neglect 
them. But to-night the silence remained un- 
broken longer than usual. She glanced furtively 
at the frown on his brow and knew that he was 
worried. She was fearful of offending him, and 
yet she had determined to speak to him of the 
prospective mortgage on the iron works. She 
did not hope that anything she could say would 
influence him, but it would show him that she 
had his interests at heart; it might bring her 
nearer to him, and it was an effort in the right 
direction. It was not easy, for they were very 
far apart. It was not until they reached home 
that she turned toward him and said desperately : 
‘^Mr. Kavanagh told me this evening that you 
thought of mortgaging the iron works.” He 
did not reply, and she felt the awkwardness of 
her position, but made one more effort, and 
asked, feebly, “Do you think it is best?” 

He turned and looked at her intently, and the 
scorn in his eyes sent the blood rushing to her 


240 


A COMMON MAN. 


temples. ‘‘You will be provided for,” he said. 
“I settled the St. Louis house on you to-day. 
Good-night.” And he turned abruptly and 
left her. 

CHAPTER VII. 

AUNT TILDAH CHANGES HER ABODE. 

Late in the winter there appeared on the reg- 
ister of Willard’s Hotel the names of three old 
acquaintances. So large, so pompously rounded 
were the letters of each that they occupied six 
lines on the page instead of three; and the news- 
paper reporter, on his daily rounds, was at- 
tracted by their assertive rotundity, and placed 
in their proper position at the head of his list 
of hotel arrivals the names of “Hoel Pitzhugh, 
Mrs. Noel Fitzhugh, Miss Matilda Fitzhiigh.” 

The party had stopped at the capital on their 
return home from New York, where Noel Fitz- 
hugh had gone with the double intention of 
placing some securities controlled by a Southern 
syndicate and having his sister examined by a 
distinguished specialist. For Matilda Fitz- 
hugh’s malady had grown constantly worse. 
The shadowy hand that had stretched in at her 
window night after night had left its mark 
upon the failing limbs; the slight hands that it 
had clasped were tremulous and cold upon the 


A COMMON MAN. 


241 


warmest days; the chest had shrunken beneath 
its weight, and the lips that it had touched were 
blue; the hands had smoothed her brow with its 
fantastic fingers, and the woman’s brain had 
weakened beneath its blighting caresses. 

There was but little change in Judge ISToel 
Fitzhugh. That steadfast disciple of blood was 
as courtly, as fastidious, as verbose as in bygone 
days. The election of his son-in-law to Con- 
gress had been accepted as an additional feather 
in his own cap, or, rather, in the tiara of the 
Fitzhughs. “It is impossible, sir, to exaggerate 
the influence of an intellectual woman over the 
husband whose interests she has espoused,” were 
words that he had uttered oracularly on more 
than one convenient occasion. “What would 
the great Disraeli be if it were not for the de- 
voted woman he calls wife? What would our 
own Andy Johnson be, sir, if it were not for the 
estimable woman who taught him his letters 
after their marriage? There are men in Con- 
gress to-day, sir, who owe their positions to their 
wives, sir.” 

He saw his daughter in the full enjoyment of 
all that he had promised to lure the sacrifice of 
her girlhood, and was naturally gratified. In 
the capital of the nation his daughter, who 
might have been the wife of some debt-ridden 
Southern planter, had she possessed a less solid- 


242 


A COMMON MAN. 


tous parent, was rich and courted. The Fitz- 
hugh blood rolled in its carriage and dwelt in its 
palace, and things were as they should be. The 
boys would be well started a little later on. Less 
to ingratitude than to youthful thoughtlessness 
did he attribute her failure to throw her fair 
arms about his neck and thank him for the mani- 
fold blessings that she enjoyed. And Mrs. Fitz- 
hugh, ever mindful of his peace of mind, said 
nothing to enlighten him. For Mrs. Fitzhugh 
had her doubts and misgivings. There were 
discordant notes in Genevieve’s laughter, and 
the mother’s yearning intuition told her that the 
bright eyes were -not strangers to tears. But she 
could do nothing, even her efforts to win her 
daughter’s confidence having proved unavailing. 
John Greystone’s habitual coldness surprised 
her, but, making her wish parent to the thought, 
she attributed it to the cares of his public duties, 
and, besides, she had never been able to under- 
stand people of John’s class. But he was not 
only different from men that she had hitherto 
knov/n; he was different from himself, from the 
other self whose awkward ardor she had laughed 
at in the early days of his courtship. She won- 
dered in vague terror if it could be possible that 
the man had outgrown his love for his wife. 
But the supposition was too absurd to be consid- 
ered seriously. If Genevieve had been homely. 


A COMMON MAN. 


243 


unattractive, cUill, he might have tired of her, 
but no man, whatever the quality of his blood, 
could tire of Genevieve Greystone. The thought 
was preposterous. 

As for John’s manners, even so severe a critic 
as Judge Noel Fitzhugh acknowledged that they 
had improved. “There is a little self-conscious- 
ness apparent at times,” he said, “but Genevieve 
has accomplished wonders. I think he might 
go almost anywhere now without having his 
manners commented on.” 

“Do you find him changed in any other re- 
spect, Noel?” asked his wife. 

“Well, 3^es, I think he is more reserved than 
he was. I suppose his mind is a good deal pre- 
occupied vyith Congressional and business af- 
fairs. He is a young man for the position he 
holds.” 

“He looks twenty years older than Gene- 
vieve,” said Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“He does look old,” her husband- assented. 
“He always addresses you as Mrs. Fitzhugh, 
does he not?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think the man still feels his position at 
times, and his modesty is commendable, but on 
the whole I think— don’t you think?— you know 
he is Genevieve’s husband— that it would be 
best for you to ask him to call you ‘mother’?” 


244 


A COMMON MAN. 


“I have asked him — I asked him the first op- 
portunity I had after our arrival. Genevieve 
was with us.” 

“Well? What did he say?” 

“He didn’t say anything. He just looked at 
me. He didn’t appear embarrassed, but I sup- 
pose he must have been. Genevieve came to 
the rescue with some droll remark about the 
political aspirations of Leslie Kavanagh.” 

“He has not called you ‘ mother ’ since 
then?” 

“E’o; he has invariably addressed me ae 
‘ Mrs. Fitzhugh.’ ” 

“What do you think he asked me this morn- 
ing?” queried the Judge. 

“I am sure I cannot guess,” she answered. 

“He asked me to let Tildah stay here with 
them. I d^n’t imagine why’ he wants her, but 
there was no doubt of his earnestness. I asked 
him what prompted the request, and he answered 
candidly that she asked him to do it. He hast- 
ened to add, though, that he really wanted her. 
I am at a loss what to do about it.” 

“You have not spoken to Tildah?” 

“Yes. She must have overheard us” (ISToel 
Fitzhugh v/ould have accused no woman in the 
world of listening), “for she burst into the room 
suddenly and announced her intention to remain. 
You know the physicians here and in York 


A COMMON MAN. 245 

have insisted, that she must not be crossed under 
any circumstances.” 

‘‘Yes, I know. Poor Tildah! It would be a 
great relief to you, Noel. She makes it very 
hard for you at home.” 

“Yes, she hates me more bitterly every day. 
She has never forgiven me for sending that man 
West away.” 

“Have you ever heard of West since?” 

Judge Fitzhugh coughed, and answered indi- 
rectly: “Tildah has never received a line from 
him. I have thought sometimes that the man 
was dead.” 

“And yet Tildah expects always that he will 
return,” remarked Mrs. Fitzhugh. 

“Strange steadfastness of faith! It is the 
only thing in which Tildah has not changed,” 
said the Judge. “That and her hatred of me,” 
he added, bitterly. 

So it was decided that the stricken lady should 
remain’ in the home of John Greystone, and she 
did not accompany Judge and Mrs. Fitzhugh 
when they departed for Kentucky, a few days 
after the conversation just recorded. Mr. and 
Mrs. Greystone went with them to the depot, 
and in their hurried leave-taking the reader, too, 
must bid farewell to the great philosopher of re- 
finement and propinquity who took up the gilt- 
edged scroll of life and read upon the title-page 


246 


A COMMON MAN. 


that ‘‘blood was blood.” Hard facts combated 
the theory at times — the rescue of his child by a 
ragged berry-picker, the love of his sister for an 
unknown telegraph operator, his own weakness 
in the matter of the sale of certain coal lands — 
but the student faltered not in his fealty to his 
motto. He had always cherished a lurking 
belief that it was the berry-picker who was first 
attacked by the dog, and defended himself nat- 
urally; the weakness of his sister’s mind ac- 
counted for her fascination, and circumstances 
had made imperative the sacrifice of his coal 
lands. He always called the consideration for 
that fifty thousand dollars “coal lands,” though 
the “coal lands” have never passed out of his 
own hands. Hard facts were combated and 
overcome, and at the end of the chapter, even as 
on the title-page, he read the motto: “Blood is 
blood.” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

The financial failure of John Greystone was 
not characterized by the suddenness with which 
great fortunes are so often lost. It was a 
shrinkage which began with the wild-cat Kan- 
sas land speculation disclosed by Kavanagh, 


A COMMON MAN. 


247 


gained new force in the mortgage on the Great 
Western Iron Works drawn up some weeks 
after, and became irretrievable the day that 
stock in the Wabash Railway, the chief property 
in the Wall Street syndicate of which he was a 
member, dropped ten points. His losses were 
gradual enough for him to have drawn out with 
a comfortable remnant of his fortune, even after 
the decline just mentioned, and Kavanagh, who 
had been fleeced in his youth by the bulls and 
bears, and who feared Wall Street as he feared 
nothing else in the world, begged and pleaded 
with him to pocket his losses and withdraw that 
portion of the syndicate funds that still remained 
in his name. But Kavanagh might as well 
have attempted to argue with a stone wall (to 
use his own hopeless simile) as to turn John 
Grey stone from the path he had taken. He felt 
that he had gone too far to retreat, and was too 
proud to draw out a loser. Besides, he had con- 
fidence in the plausible scheme of the syndicate, 
the possibilities of which, at least, were as bril- 
liant as the probabilities had been. The fasci- 
nation of stock gambling had won him as it had 
v7on thousands of men before, and as it has won 
thousands of men since. He had cast the die 
and he would stand by it. 

But there were other troubles to bear during 
those last wretched weeks of the session. He 


248 


A COMMON MAN. 


had been made chairman of the Labor Commit- 
tee of the House, and a bill of importance to the 
laboring classes virtually depended on his recom- 
mendation or disapproval. Worried though he 
was, he investigated the subject thoroughly, 
and, according to his lights, deemed that the 
ultimate effects of its passage would be perni- 
cious. The consequence was that his committee 
reported the bill unfavorably, and it was lost. 
He had kept his solemn pledge to the work- 
ingmen, and had voted with the Democrats 
against the bill. The next morning a hundred 
journals of his own political faith denounced 
him as a renegade from his party, and a parvenu 
aristocrat who had taken the earliest opportunity 
to prove a traitor to the people from whom he 
had sprung. Labor unions throughout the land 
passed resolutions of condemnation against him, 
and even his own co-operative union repudiated 
the man they had elected, and publicly demanded 
his resignation. It was hard. John Greystone’s 
most bitter enemy, knowing the struggle it had 
cost him to redeem his pledge in the disapproval 
of that bill, would have acknowledged that it 
was hard. And yet it was not the heaviest cross 
that John Greystone bore during those wretched 
days. The man who had tested the littleness of 
gold could bear its loss; knowing that he had 
done what he thought was right, he could bear 


A COMMON MAN. 


249 


the unjust condemnation of those for whom he 
suffered ; but there was nothing, nothing to 
lighten the burden of that other cross. For in 
those hours when he knew how little his motives 
were understood by others, when his whole nat- 
ure craved encouragement and sympathy, when 
he groped wildly at times for one touch of a ten- 
der hand — in those hours, when he felt that the 
only encouragement, the only sympathy, the 
only tenderness for which he would have cared, 
were irretrievably lost to him — in those hours 
John Greystone learned to love his wife. As 
long as he had felt secure in his wealth, in his 
success, in the final fulfillment of his ambitious 
projects; as long as he had felt secure in his 
possession of her, and had not tested the empti- 
ness of all other things (the utter, utter empti- 
ness), he had steeled his heart against her and 
tried to believe that his great love was hatred. 
And why? Because she had sacrificed herself to 
save her parents. Now that the possibility of 
losing her was upon him; now that his forgive- 
ness was unavailing, he knew how freely he for- 
gave her. For there was a possibility of losing 
her. He had chained her with his wealth, only 
to taunt her in the golden chains, and now that 
they were broken, he dared not hope that she 
would voluntarily remain at his side. The idea 
was preposterous. He had not spoken one ten- 


250 


A COMMON MAN. 


der word to her in all their married life. And 
now, now that he had nothing to offer but fallen 
fortunes and a blighted name — now he dared not 
even tell her how he loved her. 

And this gold, this paltry stuff of whose pur- 
chasing power he had boasted so loudly; this 
gold that was better than gentle blood or refine- 
ment, or learning; this gold that could buy all 
things and make life worth the living, where 
was it and what was it now? If the downward 
movement in Wall Street was not checked, if 
the market did not turn, what then? He would' 
be ruined, and he could not name one human 
being who would care. He had vaunted his 
gold, and he was nothing without it. The only 
class that he had really cared for execrated him. 
That other class that he had hated — his wife’s 
class — would only laugh at him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE STORY OF A SCAR. 

Whatever the fluctuations on the Xew York 
Stock Exchange ; however many lambs were 
fleeced; whatever the shortage of crops, and 
however rapidly the cloud of disaster darkened 
over Wall Street, there v/as no dearth of gayety 


A COMMON MAN. 


251 


in Washington, where the pleasure-seekers waver 
not in their eager chase while the season lasts. 
Whatever the cares of John Greystone; however 
the golden sands of wealth slipped through his 
loosened fingers, receptions, dinner-parties, balls, 
followed one upon the other with unseemly haste 
— and at receptions, dinner-parties and balls, 
wherever the court was gaj^est, wherever the 
race was swiftest, with the glamour of beauty and 
wealth and grace about her, the admired of all, 
the envied of many, was Genevieve Greystone. 
Mrs. Ileighdecker had taken a furnished house 
on Massachusetts Avenue for the winter, and 
little Miss Inosent, under the watchful care of 
that experienced duenna, was spending her first 
season at the capital. 

Genevieve usually attended evening entertain- 
ments with these two, sometimes returning home 
in their carriage, and less frequently in her own, 
accompanied by her husband, who would on rare 
occasion call for her on his way home from com- 
mittee work or secret conclaves with the trio of 
capitalists in whose speculative transactions he 
had become so deeply interested. He had prom- 
ised to call for the ladies, at a late hour on this 
particular evening, at the residence of the Secre- 
tary of the Interior, whose wife had distributed 
a thousand invitations to the swell ball of the 


season. 


252 


A COMMON MAN. 


The first three or four dances on the pro- 
gramme had been satisfactorily performed by 
the throng of young people present; some score 
of youthful scions of greatness — intoxicated with 
the combined effects of the lights of bright eyes 
and chandeliers, the latest waltz and the last 
bottle of champagne — had fervently declared 
their undying devotion to as many gay damsels; 
Mrs. Heighdecker — who had actuall}^ carried 
her seventy summers through the mazes of a 
quadrille beside the seventy winters of Senator 
Blankington, who had wooed her a half century 
before — was still panting contentedly, when Gene- 
vieve, who had been entertaining a group of 
admiring foreign officials, of whom the French 
Minister was the most prominent, turned from 
the latter toward the Secretary of the Interior, 
who had just approached, accompanied by a 
stranger, a bronzed, gray-haired man of fifty, 
who was apparently not thoroughly at home in 
his splendid surroundings. 

“Allow me to introduce Mr. AYest, Mrs. 
Greystone,” said the Secretar3^ 

“I am charmed, I am sure,” said Genevieve 
affably, accepting the proffered hand of the 
bronzed gentleman, wondering at the earnest 
scrutiny of his gaze and the warm pressure ot 
his clasp. 

“Is your husband here this evening, Mrs 


A COMMON MAN. 


253 


Greystone?” asked the new arrival, the earnest- 
ness of whose gaze was unabated. 

“He is not here yet,” she replied. “He is 
detained at the House this evening, but I expect 
him before twelve o’clock.” 

“I am sorry he is not here now,” said West; 
“I have come three thousand miles to see him — 
and — You have heard him speak of his old 
partner, Fred West?” 

“Yes,” said Genevieve, and turned toward 
the French Minister, who was already chafing at 
her attention to the stranger. “Count, I will 
have to ask you to excuse me from the lanciers. 
I feel too tired. Mr. West, I am sure you would 
like to meet Mrs. Heighdecker; she is a particu- 
lar friend of my husband’s.” And, taking 
West’s arm, she left the group with a smile for 
the handsome Count — a smile in which he read 
a command, and did not follow her. 

“ Va ! She will tire of him in a half hour,” 
he muttered to himself, twisting his waxed mus- 
tache. “He is a barbarian, like her husband. 
And she is beautiful like an angel. I will wait.” 

“Tell me about John,” Mr. West said, as soon 
as they were alone together in a quiet corner of 
the conservatory. 

“You have not yet seen him, then?” she 
inquired. 

“Ho, not yet. I only got in at five o’clock. 


254 


A COMMON MAN. 


and went straight to the Capitol to find him, 
but he wasn’t there. I met the Secretary, whom 
I knew on the coast when we couldn’t have 
counted twenty gray hairs between us, or twenty 
dollars either, and he told me John would be 
here this evening. He invited me up, and, 
though I felt pretty well played out, I came; 
principally to see John — and you.” He looked 
at his watch furtively. “It wants another hour 
till twelve,” he said. “Tell me, is he well?” 

“Yes.” 

“And prosperous?” 

“Ye— es.” 

“And happy?” 

There was an awkward little silence, and then 
he said: “I know I needn’t have asked that.” 

“Why?” she asked. 

“Because, when a man loves a woman the 
way John Greystone loved you, he is calculated 
to be happy after he wins her, as I take it.” 

“He must have spoken of me often, then,” 
she said, with a slight tremor in her voice. 
“Tell me what he used to say.” 

“Just as if he hadn’t told you himself a thou- 
sand times. Why, I never saw a man so much 
in love in my life as John was with you. He 
used to say that if he lived a thousand years it 
wouldn’t be long enough for him to tell you how 
much he loved you. He never would talk of 


A COMMON MAN. 255 

anything else when we were alone, and if there 
were others in camp he’d just steal off by 
himself, way off, where he couldn’t hear us, and 
stay away till the others had turned in. When 
he was a little chap it used to worry me, and I’d 
go out to look for him, afraid he might have 
fallen asleep somewhere; but I’d always find 
him wide awake, lying on his back and looking 
up at the sky. ‘What on earth are you doing off 
here alone?’ I’d ask him, and he’d answer back 
always the same: ‘Just looking at the stars, 
Fred, and thinking of her.’ I tried hard to 
break him of it, but it was no use; it couldn’t 
have been done.” 

“Why did you want to?” she asked. 

“That’s the very last question I’d want to 
answer,” he said, “but I’ll tell you just why. 
I thought it was wearing on him to think so 
much about a little girl that the chances were 
he’d, never see again. I didn’t think it natural 
that any little girl in good, circumstances would 
remember such a ragged tramp as John was 
when I found him ; pretty much the same as he 
- v/as when you first saw him, I reckon. It’s all 
right now, and I can talk freely, because you 
proved true blue, and you’ve made him happy, 
and I own up that I was in the wrong and that 
the boy was right. But I thought differently 
then, and I used to argue with him and try to 


250 


A COMMON MAN. 


shame him. At first, when he was little and 
couldn’t argue back at me, I’d think sometimes 
I’d gotten the best of him. I’d try to make him 
say that he was foolish about it all. But he 
never wavered. ‘If it’s foolish to think of her, 
then I’d rather be foolish, that’s all,’ he’d say. 
The bigger he grew the more he thought of you 
and the more I worried about it. I told him ^ 
there wasn’t a woman in the world worth it; 
and I meant it, too, for, you see, I never guessed 
that you would wait for him— how could I? 
When I’d say you wasn’t worth it, he’d swear 
you were worth every drop of blood he had and 
every ounce of gold on the coast. Well, he grew 
up so strong and ambitious, and always so con- 
fident of you, that I began to think a little better 
of it. When the flood came and he got that 
gash across the face, I thought then — ” 

“Tell me hov/ he was hurt,” Genevieve inter- 
rupted, with eager, tremulous lips. 

“You don’t mean to say he has never told 
you? But it is just like him. Well, it was this 
way. You see, we had been placer mining on 
the banks of the Kottawobfia, and had been hav- 
ing extra good luck, so good that a gang of 
Greasers, that is Mexicans, came and located a 
claim just above ours. They were a mean set, 
and we had trouble with them from the start, 
and the meanest one of the whole lot was a fel- 


A COMMON MAN. 


257 


low named Baccam. Well, one pitch-dark night 
We heard a fearful roaring and rushing of waters, 
and the next morning, when we woke up and 
went down to the bank, the creek was a foaming 
torrent, tearing along like fury, and so filled 
with trees and logs that a man’s life wouldn’t 
have been worth a copper cent in it, even if he’d 
been proof against drowning. We looked up 
and saw the Mexicans talking and motioning 
excitedly, all except Bacca, who was standing 
out by himself on a little headland that jutted 
into the river. The next instant he threw his 
hands up and yelled, and we saw the headland 
whirl about in the waters and disappear, and 
Bacca, his eyes standing out of their sockets, 
was struggling in the river. It meant death to 
him, for there wasn’t but one man in the county 
who could have kept himself afloat in that water 
five minutes, and that man was John. There 
was a long coil of rope on the bank, and before 
I knew what had happened John had one end of 
it around him, and, yelling for me to grab the 
other end, he threw himself into the water just 
as Bacca swept by the spot where we stood. 
They were both carried down a hundred feet 
before John caught the Greaser, and then I be- 
gan to pull them both in, the Mexicans running 
over to help me. We’d pulled them half way 
when I saw a big, heavy-limbed tree bearing 


258 


A COMMON MAN. 


right down on them, and I called to J ohn to let 
Bacca go. He saw it, too, but he only tightened 
his grip on the Greaser, and then the tree passed 
us and I saw a broken limb within a foot of 
John’s head. I shut my eyes then, and when I 
opened them I knew it had struck him, for the 
water was bloody about him, and he looked like 
a dead man. He had a close call, but he pulled 
through, disfigured for life. I thought of that, 
and of how much girls — most girls — think of 
good looks, and I wished more than ever that he 
had let Bacca drown. I couldn’t help asking 
him what on earth he did it for, and what do 
3mu think he said? H was thinking of her, 
Fred, and so I did it — she’d have wanted' me to 
have done it.’ ” There was silence for some 
moments after he had ceased speaking, and 
Genevieve’s eyes were turned toward the gay 
throng of dancers in the parlor. But her 
thoughts were far away, and she was picturing 
that scene of heroism in the wild waters of the 
Kottawobba. She was thinking of how cruelly 
she had misjudged him from the first; of how 
much he had suffered, and of the emptiness of 
his reward; she thought of his great love and 
how she had cast it aside. And this man who 
stood out before all other men, so noble, so 
grand, was lost to her for all time. 

‘‘You are not offended because I tried to make 


A COMMON MAN. 


259 


John forget you?” West asked, uncomfortable 
under the silence. 

“No, no,” she said. 

“I was wrong. I see that now. I owned it 
to myself the day he telegraphed me that he was 
married. You waited for him just as long as 
he waited for you, and I guess he’s the happiest 
man in Washington to-day.” 

Genevieve rose, nervously. “Let us join Mrs. 
Heighdecker, ” she said. “You must meet her 
this evening.” He had just been introduced to 
that social veteran, when John Greystone ap- 
proached them, looking pale and careworn. 
His face lit up with a smile of other days when 
he saw Fred West and felt the old-time clasp of 
his hand. 

“How long have you been in Washington? 
Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” 
he asked, with gentle reproach, still holding that 
loyal hand. 

“Well, I wanted to surprise you, and, besides, 
you don’t think I came three thousand miles to 
see you, do you? Not much, sir; 1 came on 
here expressly to see that little brown-eyed girl 
you used to talk so much about.” 

He looked smilingly from one to the other, 
but his pleasantry met with no response, for 
Genevieve became suddenly absorbed in some- 
thing that Mrs. Heighdecker was saying, and 


260 A COMMON MAN. 

the glad light had faded out of John’s eyes. 
And meanwhile that odd Mr. Chatterton, who 
had just finished a waltz with little Miss Ino- 
sent, thought it a proper time and place to relate 
to that 3^oung lady the sequel of his modern ver- 
sion of Beauty and the Beast, the story he had 
told at Mrs. Heighdecker’s the evening that 
John and Genevieve were married. “If I didn’t 
know that you never used powder, Miss Inosent, 
I’d hold you responsible for this white stuff on 
my coat,” he said, with such apparent simplicity 
that the young lady addressed blushed charm- 
ingly in spite of the lily white that adorned her 
cheeks, calling forth a low-spoken compliment 
on her lovely complexion in consequence. 

“Talking about complexions, have you forgot- 
ten the story about the Siwellativygob, the 
beautiful maiden, the beast, and the yellow 
sand?” 

“Oh, no, indeed,” she answered. “What be- 
came of the poor beast? Of course, he was trans- 
formed to a handsome prince, wasn’t he?” 

“Well, no, he was not,” said Chatterton, who 
glanced toward John just as the hard look had 
come back into the latter’s face, after West’s 
playful reference to the little brown-eyed girl. 
“The story didn’t end that way at all. After 
the beautiful maiden had obtained possession of 
the yellow sand and made her complexion even 


A COMMON MAN. 261 

as peerless as your own, Miss Inosent, the Si- 
wellati vygob told them that the beast could be 
transformed into a handsome prince only on one 
condition, and that was that she should kiss him 
on his great ugly mouth once every night and 
once every morning for three hundred and sixty- 
six consecutive days and nights. Well, you see 
the beast was so frightfully ugly that she just, 
couldn’t bring herself to do it, and so he re- 
mained a beast till the end of his days.” 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said little Miss Inosent, 

“So was the beast,” returned Mr. Chatterton. 
“And there is Mrs. Heighdecker raising her 
eyebrows at me ; which means that I am to es- 
cort you to her and that you are to be presently 
whirled away and immured in her castle. I 
had so v/anted one more waltz, too. En pas- 
sant^ have you ever noticed what black eye- 
brows Mrs. Heighdecker has? It is quite re- 
markable at her age.” 

“They are false; she paints them — oh ! I 
ought not to have told you that.” 

“It doesn’t matter, because I am sure you 
must be mistaken. She wouldn’t do it at her 
age, you know,” said that odd Mr. Chatterton. 

Fred West occupied a seat in ihe Greystone 
carriage on the way home, and John kept him 
busy answering innumerable questions about 
former acquaintances, so that West had little 


262 


A COMMON MAN. 


time to devote to Genevieve. The latter thought 
that he did it purposely, to avoid any possible 
references to their own married state or the 
romantic devotion which had culminated in 
their union. She was glad of that for her own 
sake and for John’s. She could understand how 
he had suffered now, and she felt for his suffer- 
ing more keenly than for her own. 

“Of course, you will stay at my house, Fred, 
and we’ll have your traps over the first thing in 
the morning,” sa,id John. 

“I won’t be able to stay with you to-night. 
It’s out of the question. I have a business tele- 
gram to send, and it’s necessary for me to get 
back to the hotel.” 

“Well, I know there is no changing your mind 
just now, so I’ll give it up for the present,” said 
John. “But I tell you what you will do. We’re 
almost at my house now, and you’ll come in and 
spend an hour with me over the grate fire and 
old times. I’ll promise to let you go in an 
hour.” 

“What a grim old tyrant you are. I don’t 
see how your wife puts up with you at all,” said 
West, laughingly, as the horses stopped and the 
footman threw open the carriage door. 

The three lingered in the hallway and loosened 
their wraps, for the night was cold. The Cali- 
fornian, fearful that his frank confession of op- 


A COMMON MAN. 263 

position to John’s early attachment might have 
created an unfavorable impression in the mind 
of his beautiful wife, was entreating an assur- 
ance that she had forgiven him, in a hurried 
undertone. 

There was no trace of haughtiness in her de- 
meanor. In the slight droop of the dainty head, 
in the timidly anxious expression of the brown 
eyes, in the faint trembling of the little gloved 
hand that she held before the register, was more 
of pleading than in the spoken plea of Fred 
West. Perhaps it was the presence of the com- 
panion and confidant of his boyhood days; per- 
haps it was the tremulousness of the little fingers ; 
perhaps it was the loosened curl that drooped 
over her cheek as one of brighter gold had fallen 
over the cheek of a little child years before, and 
for an instant the old passion, fierce, mighty, 
uncontrollable, .swept over John Greystone’s 
desolate heart. For that brief instant memory 
was annihilated, and, there was no bitterness 
between them. 

“You look tired, Genevieve,” he said. “We 
won’t keep you up any longer. Good-night.” 

“Good- night. Good-night, Mr. West.” 

She was about to take his hand, but remem- 
bered quickly that she and her husband had not 
clasped hands since that first night, and, deftly 
placing her fan in her right hand and glancing 


264 


A COMMON MAN. 


from the half-proffered hand of Fred West, she 
left them, and started up the stairs. On the 
lower steps she stopped, and, turning, met the 
kindly smile of West still following her. She 
bent toward him to say good-night again, and 
added, entreatingly : “It doesn’t matter about 
those other days, Mr. West, if you’ll only like 
me now. I want you to like me now.” 


CHAPTER X. 

OYER .JOHN’S FIRE. 

“Xow, tell me all about yourself, young 
one,” said the older of the two men when they 
were comfortably seated before the cheerful wood 
fire in the library. 

John smiled at the well-remembered sobri- 
quet that he had borne. 

“Listen to the wind, Fred. Doesn’t it carry 
you back to the old nights in the pine lands?” 

West threw one leg comfortably over the arm 
of his chair, and regarded his cigar contempla- 
tively. “Yes, it does,” he said. “You always 
did love to listen to the wind. I don’t think it 


A COMMON MAN. 


265 


ever sang but one song to you. Somehow I 
can’t place you with the ragged little tramp I 
picked up that Christmas morning. It’s a long 
time ago, isn’t it, boy?” 

“Yes, a long time,” John answered. And 
then they were both silent. West’s gaze bent in- 
tently upon his companion, and the latter look- 
ing into the blazing embers. 

“Young one, you’ve changed,” said West. 

“I am. older than I was, Fred.” 

“Yes, three years older. What’s three years? 
You look fort.y, John, and you are as glum as if 
you had seen a ghost.” 

“I have seen one.” 

“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t call my attention 
to it. Come, tell me what you’ve been doing 
in the last three years. You have had success 
enough to satisfy a dozen ordinary men already, 
and now, at thirty-one, you’re making a name 
for yourself in Congress. Light that cigar of 
yours and tell me how 5mu managed to be 
elected.” 

“Some other time, old boy; it’s a long story.” 

A slight cloud overspread the face of Fred 
West. 

“There is no use trying, Fred, I can’t be jolly 
to-night. I thought I could, or I wouldn’t have 
made you come in.” 

“What is it, John? What is the matter?” 


266 


A COMMON MAN. 


“Everything is the matter. Everything is 
dead against me, and I’ll be at the end of my 
rope in a few days. The game is played cut, 
Fred.” 

“What do you mean, young one? I can’t 
understand. You’re a millionaire and you are 
in Congress.” And he stopped with that clinch- 
ing argument. 

“I’m pretty far from being a millionaire, 
Fred. I don’t believe you’d gi ve ten thousand 
dollars for what I’m worth. You see, I had to 
give up the iron works a month ago, and since 
then I’ve lost about everything else I had. 
You’ll say I was a fool, and I know it now. I 
got in with some New York fellows on a big 
stock deal, and I lost from the start. I went in 
deeper and deeper till I had everything up on 
margins, and the market never turned. Just 
kept on going down, down, down. There isn’t 
much left to lose now, and I know the end isn’t 
far off.” He bowed his head upon his hands 
and continued: “Now you know it all, Fred, 
and that’s the reason I can’t welcome jmu the 
way I’d want to. I’m virtually broke now. 
The public don’t know, but it won’t be long be- 
fore they do.” 

“Why didn’t you send for me, John? I own 
half of the ‘ Little Fred ’ still, and my pile is 
yours. How much do you want right away?” 


A COMMON MAN. 


267 


John gulped down a lump in his throat and 
looked at his friend with moist eyes. “Thank 
you, Fred, but I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t.” 

“Do you want to hurt me, lad, that you re- 
fuse? Why, I always intended it for you and — 
your children, John, if you should have any. 
It’s put down that way in the will. Take half 
of it now.” 

“Fred, I don’t want to hurt you, God knows, 
but I can’t take it. If you knew just how I felt 
you wouldn’t press it on me. I’m tired of it all; 
I’m tired of St. Louis, I’m tired of Washington, 
I’m tired of Congress, I’m tired of business, I’m 
tired of the people I meet here, and I want to go 
back to the mines, with a pick on my shoulder.” 
He rose and paced the floor nervously. “I’m a 
common man, Fred, and I’m tired of playing 
gentleman,” he concluded, bitterly. 

“Poor boy, it’s too bad,” said West, sooth- 
ingly, “but it is not as bad as it seems to you 
just now. Let the money go. I’ll talk reason 
into you about that after a while. There are 
better things than money in the world. Stay 

right here in Washington and stick to Congress 

♦* 

till things begin to look up a bit. They can’t 
touch your salary, can they?” 

John smiled grimly and threw himself into a 
chair. “Why, my salary wouldn’t pay the rent 
of this house, ’ ’ he said. 


268 


A COMMON MAN. 


“Well, move into a smaller house, then. 
What’s to hinder?” 

“Have you thought of Mrs. Greystone?” 
asked John. 

“Certainly I have, and I’ve been wondering; 
how a strong man could break down under the 
loss of his money when he has a wife like you 
have to love him.” 

John did not answer; he only bowed his head 
lower upon his clasped hands. 

“I guess you think it would hurt her to give 
up her fine house and her carriages, and her 
balls and her parties, and all the fine friends 
that are no friends at all ; but you’re wrong, lad^ 
you’re wrong. A woman’s life ain’t bound up 
in that sort of thing. That little woman up- 
stairs would just give up everything and live in 
two rooms and never murmur for the man that 
she loved.” 

“Yes, Fred, for the man that she loved.” 
He stopped short with the sudden memory of 
his wife’s plea for Fred West to like her. 

But the loyal friendship of Fred West had read 
his sorrow in those few words. He came over 
and placed his arm about John’s shoulders, as 
he had done when he was a child. “If it’s that 
trouble, lad, then I can’t help you. If it’s a 
heart trouble, lad, you’ll have to bear it alone. 
You’ll just have to stand the suffering. It’s 


A COMMON MAN. 


269 


hard, awful hard, but it will be easier after 
a while, tha>nk God. I know just how much yon 
suffer, John, for I have suffered, too. I haven’t 
forgotten yet.” He took John’s hand and 
stroked it gently, even as a father might have 
stroked the hand of a sorely troubled son. There 
was nothing more that he could do, and he knew 
it. And so the fire died away to a few scattered 
embers, and the lights lo.oked sickly and pale as 
the gray winter dawn crept in through the cur- 
tains. At last West went into the hall and 
muffled himself in his great coat, and just be- 
fore they parted he said: “John, I don’t want 
to pry into your secrets — I know when you get 
ready to tell me just what your trouble is that 
you will come and do it without the asking. 
And I don’t want you to think that I blame you, 
for I couldn’t do that; but don’t be too hard on 
the girl, lad. Men can’t understand women, 
and sometimes we’re hard on them because of 
that. But I’ve been sitting here thinking of 
your wife, and I just know she’s square, John. 
I’d stake my life on it.” 


270 


A COMMON MAN. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE OLD WHITE MUSLIN DRESS. 

Miss Tildah Fitzhugh ! Miss Tildah Fitz- 
hugh ! What a thin, faded specter of a woman 
you are! What hollow eyes, what drawn 
cheeks, what wasted fingers you have! What 
a squeaky voice, what moist hands, and what a 
jerky tread is yours! Why don’t you look at 
yourself in the mirror and go mad and throw 
yourself out of the window? How the winds 
laugh at you for all your heavy weather-strips; 
how the stars peer in and whisper about you for 
all your ghostly white curtains ; how cold your 
room is for all that thick, leaden-hued carpet 
and the cheerless register in the corner! Why 
don’t you warm it up? There are matches on 
your bare dressing-case — why don’t you make 
a blaze? Why don’t you burn those big empty 
chairs, those useless white curtains, the smooth, 
cold bed, the plain black dresses in your ward- 
robe and that old, old white muslin that you never 
wear? Why don’t you do it? Why don’t you 
do it? How old are you. Miss Tildah Fitzhugh? 


A COMMON MAN. 


271 


Do you ever think how old you are? Why don’t 
you put an end to it all? Why do you sit there 
biting your nails — smiling at nothing, in the 
coldest part of the room? Do you think you can 
hide anything from me, Miss Tildah Fitzhugh? 
Haven’t you grown tired of that name on the 
visiting cards that you never use? Miss Tildah 
Fitzhugh! — have you ever thought how that 
name would look on a tombstone? What did 
you write on that bit of paper that you burned 
so carefully last night? “Mrs. Alfred West,” 
“Mrs. Alfred West,” over and over again. 
Wh}" do you draw the curtains closer when you 
loosen that black gown? Do you think any one 
would care to see you arranging your toilet? 
Do you think the sun would look in at that 
north window even if it could? Why do you 
put on that white muslin dress with the faded 
blue ribbons? Don’t you know how loosely it 
fits you? Don’t you know that it was made for 
a young girl with full arms and rounded limbs, 
with rosy cheeks and smiling lips and laughing 
eyes? And that slender gold band, so much too 
large for your finger — why do you wear it? 
Heavens! how you start at that knock on the 
door ! 

It was only Genevieve. “Don’t you want to 
come downstairs, auntie?” she asked. “I don’t 
think it’s good for you to stay up here by your- 


272 


A COMMON MAN. 


self SO much. You know I always like to have 
you in my room. Won’t you come down?” 

“No, not now. How old are you, child?” 

“Twenty- two, auntie.” 

“Yes, twenty-two. You don’t resemble Noel. 

I think you look more like your mother. She is 
a weak, foolish woman, but she is not wicked, 
like Noel. I am glad you don’t resemble Noel. 
How do you like my new dress?” 

Genevieve had not failed to notice the faded 
finery in which the poor lady was arrayed; but 
aware as she was of her aunt’s eccentricities, 
she had concealed her surprise. I think it very 
pretty, auntie, but I like black better,” she 
said. 

“Well, I like white. He always liked white, 
too, and this was his favorite dress,” said Aunt 
Tildah, smirking at herself in the mirror. 

“Won’t you come downstairs with me, 
auntie?” 

• “No, I expect him at any time now, and I 
want to be ready to receive him when becomes.” 

“When who comes, auntie?” 

“It’s a secret for the present, my dear, but 
you’ll know soon enough. The clock told me I 
would see him last night, and I did. There’s 
one good thing about clocks, they’re truthful.” 
And she stroked the black timepiece on her man- 
tel. “ I saw him come up the steps last night, 


A COMMON MAN. 


273 


and I waited here for him, but I suppose he 
could not find the room, or maybe he feared that 
he might disturb me, because I saw him go 
away again. He might have waited in the par- 
lor, and I’m sorry now that I didn’t go down. 
But he’ll be back again before long now, and 
I’ll be ready to receive him when he comes.” 

Miss Tildah Fitzhugh, Miss Tildah Fitzhugh 
— what a good thing it is that clocks are truth- 
ful! 


“I want to see Mr. and Mrs. Greystone,” said 
Fred West, emphasizing the latter prefix, as he 
handed his card, to the tall footman the evening 
after his midnight conference with John. He 
was shown into the parlor, where he found not 
only Genevieve, but that indefatigable Mrs. 
Heighdecker, her protegee^ Miss Inosent, and 
that odd Mr. Chatterton. Genevieve advanced 
cordially to meet him, and a few minutes later 
John entered the room. The latter was at once 
monopolized, by Mrs. Heighdecker, who began 
to task him severely for working himself to 
death. “I know how you do,” she said; “you 
just work at the House all day, and then you 
come home and try to work all night. The first 
thing you know you will be sick. I wish I 
could take your wife’s place for a week, and 
we’d see whether I wouldn’t put a stop to it.” 


274 


A COMMON MAN. 


Meantime Mr. Chat ter ton had availed himself 
of the opportunity of a tete-a-tete with little 
Miss Inosent, and Fred West found himself 
quite naturally conversing with Genevieve on a 
sofa. 

Mrs. Greystone. “You remember the story I 
told you about Lucy Kent and Mr. Sedgwick, 
Mrs. Heighdecker?” 

Mrs. Heighdecker. “Yes. You refer to that 
pretty little doll- baby who was so much in love 
with him, I suppose? It was a shame the way 
he flirted with her.” 

Mrs. Greystone. “He was more serious than 
I gave him credit for being. I received a letter 
from mamma this morning, and she says they 
are to be married in June.” 

Mrs. Heighdecker. “Is it possible? I al- 
ways thought he would make a brilliant mar- 
riage. Of course, Lucy Kent has nothing.” 

Mrs. Greystone. “Yes, she is well off now. 
Her father’s brother, who lived in New York, 
and who lost his only child six months ago, left 
her everything he had. He died suddenly, you 
know.” 

Mrs. Heighdecker. “And now Mr. Sedg- 
wick s long devotion is to be rewarded at last.” 

Mr. Greystone (to Mrs. Heighdecker). “So 
you would prescribe less work and more play 
for me?” 


A COMMON MAN. 


275 


Mrs. Heighdecker (decidedly). “ Yes. Yo 
work and all j)lay, if necessary. Anything to 
keep those wrinkles off your face.” 

Mr. Greystone (pleasantly sarcastic). “What 
hour would you advise for retiring?” 

Mrs. Heighdecker (sagely). “Two o’clock a.m. 
It isn’t the hour you retire, but the hour at 
which you get up. Go to bed at two, and break- 
fast at eleven. You ought to go to the clubs 
and the theaters and parties, and every place 
where people enjoy themselves rationally, instead 
of working themselves to death. Poor Heigh- 
decker ! He might have been alive to-day if he 
had only followed my advice and given up the 
banking business. ’ ’ 

Mr. Chatterton (fervently). “I give you my 
word. Miss Lily, that I have never in my life 
told any woman what I told you last night 
(truthfully). I had never even thought that I 
could love any woman before I saw you.” 

Miss Inosent (naively). “If you are not care- 
ful, Mr. Chatterton, you will really make me 
believe that you are in earnest.” 

Mr. Chatterton. “I wish that I could, with 
all my heart. Why won’t you believe me?” 

Miss Inosent (dubiously). “I don’t know. 
I can’t.” 

Mr. Chatterton (deeply anxious). “If yon 
could — if you did believe me — could you not 


276 


A COMMON MAN. 


feel for me? Would you not care for me a 
little?” 

Miss Inosent (doubtfully). “It may be that I 
am not capable of loving.” 

Mr. Chatterton (impetuously). “You are 
capable, I could swear it. No woman with your 
beauty, your gentleness, your tender heart, could 
be incapable of the sweetest grace of woman- 
hood. Oh, Lily, say at least that you will be- 
lieve me!” 

Miss Inosent. “I want to. Try to teach me.” 

Mrs. Greystone. “Then you don’t dislike me 
now?” 

Mr. West. “I have liked you ever since I 
knew you.” 

Mrs. Greystone (archly). “But that has only 
been for twenty-four hours.” 

Mr. West (slightly confused). “Is that all? 
It seems longer to me. Well, I liked you before 
I knew you — ever since you married John.” 

Mrs. Greystone. “I wish I had known you 
before that — years ago, when I was a girl.” 

Mrs. Heighdecker. “Mr. West, have you 
heard Mrs. Greystone sing?” 

Mr. West. “No. I wish she would sing, 
though. Won’t you sing, Mrs. Greystone?” 

Miss Inosent. “Oh, do sing, please, Mrs. 
Greystone. Sing something romantic.” 

Mr. Chatterton. “Oh, do sing, Mrs. Grey- 


A COMMON MAN. 


277 


stone. Sing ‘The Nightingale.’ (Sotto voce:) 
It’s Miss Inosent’s favorite.” 

Genevieve left West’s side, and, sitting down 
at the piano, touched the keys softly. She did 
not sing either of the airs requested, but an 
olden song of other days, one that she thought 
Fred West might have heard: “Douglas, Doug- 
las, Tender and True.” 

As the sound of the last plaintive note died, 
silence fell upon the group, and all eyes were 
turned toward a strange apparition in the door- 
way. It was that of a faded old woman, clad 
in a girlish costume of white muslin, ghastly 
with many ribbons of faded hue. Grotesquely 
fashioned paper flowers ornamented her gray 
hair, while the low neck and short sleeves re- 
vealed her thin arms and scrawny neck. As 
Fred West looked at the strange flgure, she 
stretched her arms toward him wildly, and, with 
one broken sob, fell senseless to the floor. 


278 


A COMMON MAN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE CLOCK TALKS FOR THE LAST TIME.’ 

Tildah Fitzhugh had lain unconscious for 
hours in the big white bed in her own room. 
The winds rattled the shutters and laughed at 
her wasted figure; the short winter day deep- 
ened into early twilight, and the stars peeped 
through the stiff white curtains and whispered 
about her among themselves; the clock pointed 
its long finger at the bare toilet table, at the 
black gown in the closet, at the still woman on 
the bed and at the man who watched at her side. 
Through all those hours he sat there, chafing 
the thin, cold hands and waiting for her eyes to 
open. 

The physician stood at the other side of the 
bed. He had looked at her, felt her thread-like 
pulse, listened to the faint beating of the tired 
heart, and shaken his head gravely. 

“There was little hope, almost none,” he had 
said. And the two consulting physicians who 
had been called in agreed with him. 

“How long will it be, doctor?” asked Fred 


A COMMON MAN. 


279 


West, without removing his glance from the 
pallid face. 

“Toward morning, I think,” was the reply. 

“Will she regain consciousness before the 
end?” 

“It is probable that she will.” 

And so they waited, speaking in whispers at 
first, and then not at all, till the room became 
so still that the clock could be heard talking to 
itself on the mantel. She had been smiling in 
her last conscious moments, and. the smile re- 
mained on her lips. Again and again West 
bent over her hand and kissed it tenderly. And 
he prayed, not that she might not die, but that 
she might know before the end that he was at 
her side; that she might clasp his hand at part- 
ing; that she might pass the threshold of death 
with the knowledge that he had been true. 

At midnight John came into the room and 
leaned softly over the unconscious woman. His 
eyes met those of Fred West — who had loved 
and lost, and had borne that secret sorrow in his 
heart for all those years; who had left hope 
downward-eyed at youth’s last mile-stone, thirty 
years before; who had traversed the waste of 
thirty years alone with a memory, to find this 
woman he had loved at the end of his journey, 
and to wait for one pressure of the hand at the 
dark portal where Death was his rival. 


280 


A COMMON MAN. 


And love conquered. About three hours after 
midnight West felt a faint trembling clasp of 
the hand that he held, and she opened her eyes. 
He bent over and kissed her and put his arm 
about her as a lover might. She smiled up at 
him, and he felt her fingers tighten feebly about 
his own. 

“Darling, darling, I am so happy,” she said. 
“I waited a long time, but I am happy now. I 
never doubted you, Fred, dear. I knew you 
would come. If you had only written; if you 
had only sent some word. But it is all right, 
now that you have come.” For the first time 
she noticed that there were others in the room, 
but the physician beckoned them out, and those 
two were alone together. 

“Dearest, I did write. Have you forgotten?” 

“I didn’t get the letters. It was Noel. Never 
mind now. I never — ^doubted you, Fred. I am 
happy now. 

“Fred.” 

“Yes, dearest.” 

“Put the clock near me.” 

He brought it to the bed and placed it near 
her pillow. She put one arm feebly about it, but 
her eyes, fast becoming dimmed, still sought his 
face as if she would have them rest there till the 
end. And the end was very near. 


281 


A COMMON MAN. 

‘‘Fred.” 

“Yes, my own love.” 

“The — clock — always — said — that — you — 
would — come — back. ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AS ON THE FIRST NIGHT. 

The snows had drifted for a week over the 
grave of the poor, tired lady in Oak wood Ceme- 
tery, and the clock that had talked so much was 
as still on the dusty mantel in the silent chamber 
as her own heart under the frozen clay. Fred 
West was still in Washington, where he had re- 
mained in the hope of being of some service to 
John, whose financial situation grew more criti- 
cal with each succeeding day. Fred West, who 
possessed a wealth of practical business knowl- 
edge, had sifted the situation to the bottom, 
which he found deplorably near the surface, and 
had pleaded in vain for John to start out afresh 
with a share of his mining property, to be used 
merely as a loan. But the latter would not hear 


282 


A COMMON MAN. 


to liis repeated proposals, and waited, with ap- 
parent apathy, for the end. 

Leslie Kavanagh, the sole remaining adherent 
of the falling Greystone dynasty, had long since 
been provided with a comfortable sinecure in 
the Treasury Department, where he remained 
for the rest of his life in a subordinate position. 
He was popular in his new sphere, and never 
tired of telling his intimates of the greatness 
that he might have achieved, it— ad hifinitum. 
Over the desk which he occupied for years may 
be seen to-day an engraving of Thomas Hart 
Benton. 

Genevieve was sitting in the parlor alone one 
evening when she heard her husband’s footsteps 
on the flagging of the outer court, for she had 
learned to know that step (slower now than it 
used to be), and to wait for it, too. The lock 
turned; there was a brief wait in the hall, where 
he took off his overcoat; the library door opened 
and closed, and all was still again. It was the 
same, always the same — he had no thought for 
her. She had almost given up hoping that it 
could ever be other than it was. 

Presently the library door opened again, and 
her husband entered the room. Shemoticed how 
tired and care-worn he looked, and half rose 
from the easy-chair on which she sat to offer it 
to him. 


A COMMON MAN. 


283 


“Don’t get up,” he said; “I am not going to 
sit down.” 

He went to the window, and, drawing aside 
the heavy curtains, stood there looking out upon 
the wintry night. The parlor was brilliantly 
lighted, but it was so large that it looked dreary 
with only those two in it. His eyes wandered 
restlessly over the costly splendor; from the 
crystal chandeliers to the carved mantels ; to the 
grand piano, with its silent keys and the open 
music upon it; to the beautiful black-garbed 
woman in the violet velvet chair; to her perfect 
features, her dainty, aristocratic head, her slen- 
der waist ; her little foot, half hidden under the 
black skirt; to the white, jeweled fingers on 
which he had forbidden her to wear his wedding 
ring. 

“I should think you would find it pleasanter 
in your own sitting-room,” he said. “Why do 
you sit here?” 

“Because, because— ’’She couldn’t tell him; 
the words wouldn’t come. “I don’t know,” she 
said, helplessly. 

He took several nervous strides toward the 
mantel, and, as on the first night, leaned his 
elbow heavily upon it. 

“Genevieve, we’ve played the farce out,” he 
said, bitterly. “I see things differently now 
from what I used to, and if I had it to do over 


284 


A COMMON MAN. 


again I’d do differently. But what is done is 
done, and there is no use talking about that now. 

I guess you feel hard toward me, and I can’t 
blame you. If it’s any satisfaction for you to 
know it, I tell you now that I’ve been miserable 
from the beginning to the end. I tried to hide 
it and brag it off, but I found out how common 
I was. I thought I could buy happiness, but I 
know now that I couldn’t have bought it for an 
hour with all the money I ever had.” 

She turned her face from him and asked, 
“Why are you telling me this, John?” 

“Because I’m going out to the coast to-mor- 
row morning, and I wanted to tell you before I 
went away. I won’t come back here again, and 
it will be easy enough for you to get a divorce. 
It’s a pretty poor return to make to you after 
these wasted years, but it is the best I can do. 
You’ll be a free woman, and the St. Louis house 
is settled on you. I haven’t a dollar in the world 
of my own, and I’m going to begin over again 
in the mines. Good-by.” 

He took one step toward her as if he would 
have taken her hand, then turned resolutely 
toward the door. 

“You don’t want to stay here? It is not hard 
for you to go?” she asked, without looking at 
him. 

He stopped and looked at her intent!}^, with 


A COMMON MAN. 


285 


her eyes downcast, and her chin resting in the 
hollow of her little hand. 

“There is nothing for me to stay for. If there 
is hardship in my going, it won’t be hard on 
anybody but me.” 

“You haven’t any money left?” 

“No, not a dollar,” he answered, wonder- 
ingly. 

“If it was hard on any one else? If there 
was any one who wanted you to stay?” 

He took one hasty step toward her and 
stopped. 

She had not raised her eyes, and her hand 
was toying carelessly with a tassel on the arm 
of her chair. 

“There is no one,” he said. 

“And if there was some one?” Her voice 
trembled, “If I should tell you that I didn’t 
want a divorce, that I wanted to be with you 
always, no matter how poor you might be; that 
it would break my heart for you to leave me; 
that I love you, John?” 

She looked up with quivering lips, their eyes 
met, and life’s revelation was unfolded to 
them. 

He wound his arms about her, with all the 
tenderness of his nature'. Her head now rested 
on his breast, and for the first time in his life he 
kissed her. 


A COMMON MAN. 


28 f> 

“Genevieve, deai’est, dearest, can you ever 
forgive me?” 

She looked up at him with all her woman’s 
love ill her e^^es, and there was no need for her 
lips to answer. 


THE END. 


“On or off 

the line_ 
we’re with the ma- 
jority — ‘stuck’ on 
Pearline!” And 
they’re right — you 
will observe that 
their heads are 
level. Millions oi 
women sine the 
same song as the 
clothes-pins. TheV 
may express it differently, but they mean the 
same thing. They mean that their work is easy 
and sooner done — and better done. No clothes 
worn out with the endless rub, rub, rub on the 
washboard. No backs tired out with it, either. 

Beware of imitations. 333 JAMES PYLE, New York. 

















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